False Prophets
by Tannin Tele
Summary: Harry is clairvoyant; a genuine one, not like that fraud Trelawney or Madam Umbridge, who claims that the dead communicates by writing messages in her cat's litter box. It isn't fun reliving the deaths of strangers, but when the antique shop next door is placed under new management, things get interesting.
1. Hedonistic Pleasures

_**False Prophets**_

 **TanninTele**

* * *

 _Disclaimer: All rights belong to J.K. Rowling, voiding that of original content and characters._

* * *

NEIL: _"So, does everyone come back as a ghost?"_

NORMAN: _"No. My grandma told me it's usually people that still have stuff to figure out,_

 _or sometimes it's the ones who died suddenly or in a bad way."_

 _\- Paranorman,_ Focus Features

* * *

 ** _Late Spring, 1998_**

 ** _Age Seventeen_**

 **I:**

As soon as the girl stepped into his shop, Harry looked up from his book, the page sliding from his fingers. Harry worked in the back of Knockturn Alley, next to an old antiquity dealer and a small mom-and-pop's café. Knockturn was in a seedier part of London, prone to prostitites, pickpockets and pests, but customers didn't come for the aesthetic.

His store was sparsely decorated, with worn seats, an old desk and several paintings nailed to the wall. Dim lighting originated from a few flickering candles, giving the _The Veil of Death_ a mysterious, dismal ambiance. Harry lived upstairs in a run-down, dusty apartment, but the rent was cheap.

As the woman sat primly across from him, Harry asked for payment up front. It was shady, he knew, but he'd been the victim of too many unhappy, unpaying clients.

The woman was close to his age, perhaps a bit older, with long brown hair and hooded brown eyes. Introducing herself as Padma Patil, she showed him a card - Harry's own business card. It was crinkled and well-read, passed from hand to hand numerous times. Crudely made, the card read simply _The Veil of Death: Psychic Readings_ _._

Padma didn't wait long before making her request. "Mister Prince - " she called him by his pseudonym.

"Harry, please."

 _"Harry,_ then. I need you to tell me who killed my sister." Her bluntness both surprised and amused him.

The boy debated internally.

Talking to the dead was - of course - Harry's specialty. However, he didn't particularly like murder victims. Their deaths were sticky and painful, and the spirits often problematic, scared and angry.

"First, I should say - "

Padma sat impatiently, tapping her foot. "Just get _on_ with it. You're the dozenth psychic I've seen, and likely the last. I've heard it all before."

He hid a smile, liking the girl's gumption. Most psychics had a spiel about the unreliability of their methods and the fickle way of the dead. But Harry was a genuine clairvoyant, nothing like the other frauds scattered across the country. Sybil Trelawney was a popular one, obsessed with her tea leaves and fond of spouting outlandish, doom-mongering claims. She left her clients (victims) either in tears or rejecting mysticism all together. Madam Umbridge, a particular thorn in Harry's side, claimed that the dead communicated by writing messages in her cat's litter box. Obsessed with superstition and the 'luckiness' of felines, Umbridge was often referred to as 'Lady Lucifer'.

Harry hated Umbridge with a passion.

Pushing those feelings aside, it took some time for Harry to to separate _his_ thoughts from _hers._ The spirit was a cold, crippling presence, pressing suffocatingly close. He took a deep, steadying breath.

"The first thing you should know about your sister is that she was a prostitute." He waited, back tense in anticipation for the expected response.

 _"She won't believe you,"_ the ghost whispered, seconds before Padma Patil spat at him. Harry delicately wiped the spittle from his cheek.

"That's a lie," Padma's lips curled into a hurt, angry snarl. "Parvati would _never_."

The boy sympathized, but he had little time for blissful ignorance. The spirit was restless, memories and truths bubbling at the surface, threatening to spill over. "It's true," he said, crossing his legs at the knee. "She was an exotic dancer. That's how they found her, wasn't it? In lace and leather."

 _Her pants were so tight that they fit almost like a second skin. Sweat pooled beneath her arms as her hips rolled in time to the pulsing music._ _Vivid lights strobed across the chamber, illuminating the diverse skins and glittering outfits. Very little could be heard through the music, masking a cacophony of tittering laughter, sensual moans and sultry whispers. The girl glided down the silver pole, smirking as the man in front of her panted heavily._

"That could mean anything," Padma insisted.

"Her name?" Harry brought his fingers up to his throat. His pulse was short and erratic; asphyxiation, he recognized distantly.

"Parvati," the girl shifted on the arm chair. "I told you this."

"Her middle name, then. Something floral." A memory of pungent perfume hit his nose. "Rose? Yes, I thought so. They called her Rosie at the club," Harry informed. "Because her lips were always painted - "

Padma's eyes widened. "Red."

 _Well-manicured fingers expertly twisted at a golden tube. Rosie watched her face carefully in the mirror, a pointed chunk of bright lipstick brushing delicately over plump lips._

"She wore a locket engraved with a rose," Harry mused, green eyes flitting to Padma's bosom. She wore a loose dress shirt and black trousers. "Just like the one you're wearing right now, hidden beneath your shirt. I assume you got it from her personal effects. May I see it?"

With trembling fingers, Padma pulled out a golden chain. The pendant was heart-shaped and had a tiny picture inside. It was Padma and Parvati, both teenagers in the image. Padma looked much the same, with long brown hair and silver glasses. Beside her was a nearly identical girl, pretty and thin, with bright red lips. Though they were twins, they couldn't be any more different.

 _Rosie's cheeks were stained with rouge, dark eyes made larger by grey eyeshadow. The girl reached into a small purse and pulled out the necklace. The pendant settled between between her breasts, completing the ensemble. By now it was habit to wear it before every performance._

"Do you believe me now?" Harry asked Padma.

The girl nodded, her expression one of faint awe and fear. "Can - can you tell me who killed her?" She tore a notepad from her purse, the pencil perched with anticipation. "Anything - his name, his clothes, hair color. _Something."_

A sudden frigid breeze lifted bumps onto his skin. _"Tell her everything,"_ Parvati urged. _"I want that bastard to_ pay _."_

Wisps of foreign memory passed before his mind's eye. "He had dark hair," Harry murmured. "And grey eyes."

 _His eyes were_ _so incredibly bright in their intensity. While many of her other clients preferred to focus on the tan skin of her legs or the tight fit of her shirt, he always watched her face_ _. The attention thrilled her. Tonight, their eyes caught half-way through the dance, dark orbs meeting light. The man licked his lips, leaning forward. Her gyrating quickened, and he smiled knowingly. Rosie felt a shudder go down her spine._

"He had a mole on his neck." _Rosie's lips lingered on the mark as he pushed her against the wall. She suckled on the beauty mark, his throat vibrating with a guttural moan._

"And a cracked front tooth." _The jagged bone had caught on her bottom lip, tearing it with a hot sting. Once he got a taste of that savory, metallic flavor, he seemed determined to drag more blood to the surface. He bit down on her throat, Rosie's trachea tightening in pain. He licked the wound apologetically._

Padma's pencil seemed to fly down the parchment, spectacles sliding dangerously down her nose. "His name? Does she - do you know his name?"

Harry's lips tightened, alien rage thrumming through him. "Marcus."

 _'My name's Marcus. Yours?' He leaned back onto a motel bed, gasping out the question. His pants were down, revealing a lack of boxers and a puff of curly black hairs. Rosie had her mouth full and was unable to respond._

 _But Marcus already knew the answer; he'd been watching her for a very long time._

"A last name?" Padma asked excitedly.

"Flint." _Apparently, Marcus frequented this nearby motel quite a bit. The receptionist had known him by name, sending them a wink as Marcus dragged Rosie into the small room._

"Flint," Padma breathed out, body trembling with frantic anticipation. "Tha - thank you, Harry. You don't know how much this means to me."

Harry couldn't respond immediately, memories of a sweaty body and a heavy pressure ricocheting through him.

 _A long-fingered hand grasped at the chain clunking between her breasts. The metal cut into the back of Rosie's neck as it snapped, earning a painful gasp. 'D - don't do that,'_ _she whispered, blinking up at the man. In the darkness, he didn't seem quite so handsome. His eyes were still that intense shade, but the way he looked at her made her feel like a piece of bloody meat. A cruel glint shot through them as he swiftly took her wrists and yanked them above her head._

 _'You were so beautiful up there,' he breathed onto her nipples. 'Dancing like that, showing off your skin and flashing that smirk of yours. I could almost - ' Marcus dug his teeth into the tender skin of her jugular._

 _A scream worked it's way up her throat. This pain wasn't intermixed with pleasure like it should have been. It felt menacing, like she was being eaten alive; his touch burned her, frightening her. Marcus had moved down her stomach, mouthing toward her crotch._

 _She couldn't breath - his hand had crept around her throat, cutting off any potential protests. This reminded Parvati of when she was a young girl being taught to swim, with her lungs protesting, the pressure too much to bear. Her brown eyes began to flood with tears, the veins tinting a rosy red. She sought out the necklace - a gift from her sister on their eighteenth birthday. The golden chain glinted on the bed-spread. Her hand crept around it, clutching it consolingly._

"She wanted you to have her necklace," He said, blinking back tears of his own. Harry turned his head so Padma could not see them. "She was glad that they found it with her body."

 _Life began to flash in an almost cliche way. Parvati remembered donning her first training bra, her first kiss (with a girl, very pleasing but lacking a sort of zest that she prefered), helping Padma carry her textbooks into their small home, greeting their_ baba _with a kiss on the cheek. Parvati remembered late nights, the sharp tang of vodka lingering on her tongue. She remembered warm, spiced tea and her sister leaning against her, crying about a failed test. Parvati remembered the darkness of their mother's funeral and getting broken glass stuck in her palm from cleaning up her father's strewn bottles of brandy. She remembered applying that first tub of lipstick and later smearing it on a stranger's penis; she'll never forget the satisfaction that came from palming that large handful of cash and slipping away quietly into the night._

"She did all of that for you. Every tip, every payment went towards putting you through college. But, Padma, it was her decision to pursue that career path. It was _her_ decision to follow Marcus to that little motel beside the brothel. She misses you greatly, but she's - she's so proud of you. You're so strong, Paddy," the nickname slipped from his lips, eyes softening. "She wants you to kick the bastard in the balls for her."

Padma let out a choked noise.

She scrambled to collect her things. "I have to go," she wiped her face, trying to conduct herself. "I'm going to the police with this. I'll contact you if anything comes up."

 _Parvati choked, attempting one last time to inhale. His grip was too tight. Her ears rang when he came in her with a long, deep groan. Meanwhile, her_ _eyes slipped shut, rosy lips parting . . . As she died._

"Wait," Harry rasped. "Don't tell them about me," the girl lingered, confused "They won't believe you. My sort of profession is rather . . . frowned upon." More accurately, treated like witchcraft and blasphemy.

"What do I tell them, then?"

"You're a clever girl," Harry flapped a hand. A migraine began to creep up on him. "Make something up."

There was a frustrated huff, a blur of movement and the front door slammed shut. Unfortunately, Padma did not take her sister's spirit with her.

Harry released a heavy breath, placing his forehead onto the table. A soft breeze caressed the back of his neck. "Do you think she'll find him?" Harry asked the spirit, allowing her invisible fingers to continue their light ministrations. He did have quite the headache.

 _"Padma has always been stubborn,"_ she said with bittersweet fondness. Harry and Parvati spoke as though they'd been friends for years. After all, they'd merged minds and memories in the most intimate way possible. Parvati was stronger now, leeching off the medium's life-source.

Harry was always drained after a confrontation like this.

Spirits were curious beings. When someone died, they usually passed on to whatever their version of the afterlife was; others had unfinished business. Without the power of a medium, they wandered, lost, powerless and forgotten.

The lucky ones, like Parvati, found people like Harry. He always tried his best to help them pass on peacefully.

For the longest time, Harry thought he was the only one who could see the dead.

His Aunt and Uncle had thought him mad. The dead whispered secrets to him and, sometimes, Harry could convince them to manipulate the world around them. Windows would shatter, plates would spray from cupboards, spiders would swarm and - when Vernon beat him - the belt would suddenly fly from his trusted the dead more than he did his own family. At age thirteen, when Harry was finally sick of his relatives, he ran away to the streets.

The spirits had saved Harry's life often; in return, he always tried his best to save theirs.

After years of practice, he could open and close his mind to them on a whim. Those that weren't powerful enough to physically manifest he was able to ignore; the ones that were _determined_ and _stubborn_ and often just bloody fucking insane, _they_ were destructive enough to gain his attention. He supplied them energy from his very core, allowing them to break the barrier between life and death. It was physically draining and, unfortunately, that wasn't the only negative side affect.

Like with demons, spirits needed permission to enter your body. But once they had - there was no telling the sort of havoc they could wreck. Too weak to resist, Harry allowed Parvati to slip into his mind. Harry was far too nice for his own good.

 _"Just a moment,"_ she pleaded. Too weak to resist, Harry allowed Parvati to slip into his mind. Harry was far too nice for his own good.

With a surge of power, his back arched. She landed in his body with a jolt. The whites of his eyes glimmered with a milky hue.

"God, this is amazing," she purred, stretching her entire body like a wildcat. Standing up, she was a bit clumsy at first. Parvati was now unaccustomed to a living body, and had to remember to _breath._

Stumbling over her feet, Parvati pushed open an unlabeled door and climbed the winding staircase. Tapping into Harry's memories, she easily found his bathroom.

Rummaging through the drawers, she pulled out a silver tube of cheap lipstick. The pink hue didn't feel quite right, but Parvati supposed it would do. She uncapped it and leaned toward the mirror, stomach pressing against the sink. Removing his glasses, green eyes clouded with hedonistic pleasure, Parvati expertly applied the lipstick. The chalky texture gave her goosebumps. She smacked her lips, giving a coy smirk. Parvati almost felt like herself again.

She fluffed Harry's shoulder-length hair, finding the riotous waves charming. Harry really was a pretty boy. Parvati undid his belt, feeling pleased with her sister's choice of medium. Harry was a lithe, almost under-fed man, with slim hips and effeminate features. He was, however, perfectly endowed. Tossing aside his loose cotton shirt, Harry began protesting internally. Parvati gave him little consideration, fingering the perk, pale nipples.

The dead didn't hold many inhibitions.

Parvati was very familiar with the male anatomy, effortlessly slipping her fingers around his member. It didn't take long for him to harden, her fingernail slipping into his slit. The girl bit back a moan, tossing her neck back. Adam's apple bobbing, Parvati followed the cracks in the ceiling, breathing hard.

 _"P - please,"_ Harry's voice was but a little whimper in the back her her mind.

Parvati supposed just a simple hand-job wasn't quite his forte. In life, Parvati never left her men unsatisfied, and not even death could hinder that. Leaving one hand to massage his balls, Parvati slipped a finger between his pink lips, suckling at the salty pre-cum. Once the digit was wet, she wasted little time penetrating Harry's anus. The rim was tight, at first, loosening as she began fingering him. The boy let out a pained mewl, eyes rolling back.

Parvati reveled in the pleasure-pain, imagining it was her cunt being worked at. She leaned against the wall, hips gyrating, pressing the finger deeper and jerking his cock harder. It was glorious. Parvati hadn't felt anything but that all-consuming numbness in _so long._

Harry's fingers weren't nearly long enough to reach his prostate, but the ministrations were enough to bring them close to the edge. Parvati's mind mixed with Harry's, drawing Harry back to the surface. Green eyes watering with outrage and agonizing pleasure, Parvati jammed in another finger, unlubed, and came with a gasp. Pearly strands spilled onto the tile, and it might as well have been liquidized gold for the astonishing relief it gave her.

Collapsing onto the floor, Harry removed his fingers, flexing out the cramps. Parvati, returning to her ghost-like figure, placed a gentle kiss on his sweaty forehead. Harry flinched, eyes fluttering shut.

 _"Thank you, love,"_ her voice faded with the wind.

Harry's ears rang, his body sore and sated. He didn't want to move, but the uncomfortable stickiness between his thighs urged him to stand. Harry met his eyes in the mirror. _His_ eyes, he insisted, despite the pink lipstick smeared across his mouth and the wetness to his hole.

This happened often. Not quite that level of violation, no - but there was always some sort of backlash after a 'reading'. A brutal take-over like Parvati's was rare, and bound to leave a mark.

He felt like a stranger to his body. The last time Harry had even thought about sex had been . . . too long ago. Harry remembered dark eyes and a whisper of _not his name,_ a shudder going through him. His heart ached almost with the same intensity of his body.

Stepping into the small shower, he forced the thoughts away. His fingers weakly grappled for the tap. The water was cold when it hit his shoulders, too similar to Parvati's chill touch. Harry turned on the hot water tap to the highest level, letting it scald him with a fierce pressure. Harry let the sheen of filth and the smell of sex wash away, back muscles clenching and releasing. When his skin began to prune, Harry finally began to wash himself, fingers carding through tangled black hair. He scrubbed viciously at his face, the pink of his lipstick coming off in thick, sticky clods.

He could barely distinguish his tears from the rest of the water dribbling down his body.

* * *

When Harry woke the next morning, he felt as though he'd been hit by a truck. Sometime between thinking _I want to die_ and _fucking prostitute ghosts,_ a pigeon fluttered onto his window frame. Obnoxious and loud, it began to screech. No matter how many pillows Harry threw it the glass pane, the bird refused to flee.

Today would be a coffee day, then.

He rolled out of bed, dressed in an over-sized shirt and boxer shorts. The shirt reached his knobbly knees, and with a belt, it could pass as a horribly unfashionable dress. Not caring enough to change, he tugged on a pair of loose, torn capris. Tight clothes made him uncomfortable today. Running a hand through his hair, the boy noticed the subtle, pink stain to his lips. He tried scrubbing at it, but there was little change.

Bounding down the steps, Harry noticed he'd forgotten to lock up the night before. Well, he _had_ been a bit occupied _._ It seemed nothing had been taken, not that Harry had much of value to begin with.

A notorious thief by the name of 'Dung' had been striking shops on Knockturn lately. The antique shop was a common target and poor Mister Borgin, cantankerous as he was, was fraying at the seams. He'd just installed a new security system, but kept forgetting the passcode.

Flicking the _'closed'_ sign, Harry stepped out into the summer breeze. It was a weekday, and Knockturn Alley had a fair number of patrons. _The Hut_ was particularly popular this time of day, the smell of tea and biscuits wafting out into the street. Stepping into the brick-and-mortar café, Harry gave a weak greeting to Mister Flitwick, who seemed to have already had his share of caffeine and sugar. Flitwick was a short, perky man, and a locksmith of all things.

 _The Hut_ had several loyal regulars. Sitting across Flitwick was Rolanda Hooch - former tennis player - who owned the sports shop. She was none-too-subtly slipping liquor into her tea. Pomona Sprout, the florist, was picking morosely at a pastry while the washed-up actor, Gilderoy Lockhart, was regaling her with tales of some D-list cast party.

 _"Bonjour,_ darling," Olympe greeted in a smooth french accent. She stood behind the counter, her ebony hair pulled into a white hairnet. The woman was tall and robust and she wore it with confidence. Her long nails were painted a shade of dark blue, clicking away at the cash register. Her brown eyes caught on Harry's attire, nose curling delicately. "Oh, 'arry. What _are_ you wearing? If you wanted to wear a dress, you could've borrowed one of mine."

"Thank you," Harry coughed. "But no thank you."

Olympe sniffed. "Can't blame me for trying. Your regular then, dear?"

"As always."

Ringing the silver bell at her side, she called for her partner. "Rubeus, darling. One order of buttered toast and - "

Hagrid peered his head out of the kitchen, bushy hair tucked into hairnet. It was quite the amusing sight. His bushy curls strained against the confinement. "Harry's here? Ay, lad!" the man enthusiastically greeted, waving a spatula. "Place it on the tab, Olympe."

"As always," she sighed, sparing Harry a fond look.

Harry occupied his usual seat next to the window, the metal chair creaking beneath him. Sunlight shone through the pane, the golden rays dancing across the tile floor. _The Hut_ was decorated in warm tones of brown and deep blue. Before Olympe took over public relations, the café had been in near shambles. Hagrid had inherited it from his mother, a gruff Icelandic woman that cared little about appearances. Fridwulfa was a neglectful mother and worked herself to the bone, leaving Hagrid and his half-brother to be raised by his kind-hearted father. Harry didn't know much about Hagrid's family beyond that; Fridwulfa had been long dead by the time Harry moved in next door.

Hagrid started off as a terrible cook but his earnest enthusiasm easily charmed customers. His French lover, Madam Maxime, had proved to be a capable domestic _and_ business partner. For whatever reason, they'd been unable to have a child of their own, and so treated Harry as their surrogate son.

Olympe pushed a porcelain plate in front of him. Instead of just toast and jam, as he prefered, Olympe also gave him a stack of sausage and a steaming cup of tea. Harry smiled gratefully, the spicy, heady scent reaching his nose. "Eat it all. You need more meat on your bones." She squeezed his bony shoulder tightly.

He made it through half his meal before any drama occurred. His watch beeping, Flitwick bounced out the door, Hooch nodding her thanks to Olympe. Pomona looked at them wistfully, stuffing in one last bite of her pastry. "Thank you for the lovely story, Gilderoy, but I really must be going." She slapped a tip on the table and practically fled, breathing a sigh of relief.

Lockhart seemed truly despondent at the sudden lack of company. Then their eyes met. Harry's stomach sank in horror.

Smoothing back his dyed blond hair, Gilderoy plastered on a charming smirk. "So, _Hadrian,"_ Lockhart purred, sliding across from Harry. "How _is_ our resident medium? Will you read my palm?" the man shoved his hand into Harry's face.

"I don't read palms, Gilderoy."

"Some psychic," the man grumbled. "Well, what are you doing today? Hopefully shopping for better clothing, because, darling, that shade of elephant-skin grey is _not_ your color. How would you like to stop by later today?" the man leered. "I'm sure we can find something that _fits."_

Gilderoy ran a negligee store on the other side of Knockturn. The outfits were outlandish, indecent and colorful, attracting only the colorblind and the sex-crazed. Harry steered far from _Lockhart's Lusty Looks_ (the man loved his alliterations), thus minimizing the risk of seeing Gilderoy in his natural habitat. The stylist was intent on putting Harry in sheer, lace boyshorts, and not for entirely professional reasons.

"I appreciate the offer," Harry said tightly. "But I've made previous arrangements. There's an old man who needs his house cleansed _'immediately'."_

Gilderoy tutted. "Pity. I'd have loved the company. You know, love - you really need some friends, outside those silly ghouls of yours."

The boy twitched. "Spirits. Not ghouls."

"Details," Lockhart said dismissively. "Ever since poor Severus died, you've been holed up in that shop of yours, wasting your good looks - "

At the mention of his former partner, Harry set his cup down with a clatter. Lockhart was a fool, but Harry's expression brokered no other interpretation. "This was a truly _scintillating_ chat, Gilderoy," the green-eyed boy said through clenched teeth. "But I've got to make my appointment. Excuse me."

Lockhart blinked, watching as the boy gave Olympe a peck on the cheek. "No goodbye kiss for me, then?" he pouted.

"Good _bye,_ Gilderoy," His politeness was forced. The door banged shut.

Gilderoy's gaze roamed over to the hostess. "Olympe, dear," he grinned. The woman flushed brightly, eyes darting toward the kitchen. "I really must compliment your style choice; floral is so very _in_ right now. Why, I believe Celestina Warbeck - the famous actress - wore something similar to the Spring Fashion gala _._ I met her once, you know, on set for - " Olympe's eyes glazed over in boredom.

* * *

Harry changed shirts and hailed a cab.

Fifteen minutes later, Harry leaned against the window of the taxi, his breath fogging the glass. "This your stop up ahead?" the driver asked, flicking his cigarette toward the distant cul-de-sac. The houses were all one-level and painted beige. Poltergeists _loved_ bringing chaos to such uniform, bland settings.

Passing over a roll of cash to the driver, Harry stepped into the dry, crunching grass. Just in case Filch's poltergeist wasn't the talkative type, he brought a satchel of incense and a necklace made of black tourmaline. Even if Harry was a progressive medium, there were some methods that were tried-and-true.

A number of gnomes guarded the house, their paint chipped and faded. Harry tentatively knocked on the door, settling back on the balls of his feet. There was a sharp mewl from inside the house and the door opened, latch catching.

"Mister Filch?" he greeted. A hairless, wrinkled head peeked out.

Argus had beady brown eyes and a scruffy face. Grunting, the man eyed Harry, as if appraising his worth. "Yer the psychic Arabella recommended, then?"

Harry thought back, remembering a dotty old lady, insistent that her dead cat, Mister Tibbles, was haunting her. She'd tripped mid-air one day and broke her leg, swearing that she heard a feline cry in the otherwise empty room.

"Hadrian Prince, yes," he tried to smile. "Nice to meet you." Argus grunted again, unlocking the door. Harry stepped in, glancing around with polite curiosity. "Lovely home."

Beer bottles were scattered across the floor, the wall-paper torn and the carpet stained with a mysterious purple liquid. "No, it's not," Argus sighed. "That damn _creature_ has destroyed my home. But worse than that, he antagonizes my sweet Missus Norris." Crouching down, the man scratched behind the ears of a brown cat, the fur horribly matted. "Don't be afraid of our guest, my dear," he crooned. "He's here to get rid of that pest."

Missus Norris wrinkled her nose at Harry, rather pompous for a cat.

"Is there a Mister Norris?" Harry tried to joke.

Argus shot him a scandalized look, covering Norris' ears. "Mister Norris had to be 'sent to a farm' several years ago. Missus Norris hasn't fully come to terms with it."

"Erm, my condolences."

The man rolled his eyes, letting his cat slink off into the kitchen. He pressed a finger to his lips. "This way. The poltergeist likes 'ta watch the telly."

Now that he mentioned it, the television was running rather loud. Harry peered into the room, snorting at the sight of a chubby, pinched-face munchkin floating cross-legged above the couch, watching reality television. The spirit was faintly orange-tinted, sunlight filtering through the smoky body.

Filch's eyes flickered across the room, back tense. He had no idea where the spirit was, but likely felt the dark and - frankly - devilish energy. "I'm going to approach the spirit," Harry murmured. "It would be best if you left the room." Argus narrowed his eyes suspiciously, but quickly fled as the poltergeist let out a belch that shook the window panes.

Harry took a hesitant step forward, the floorboards squeaking beneath him. The poltergeist's head turn a full one hundred and eighty degrees, his lips stretching into an obscene smile. _"Who's this, then? Has old Filchy sent Peeves a friend?"_ his words were sonorous, echoing painfully through Harry's skull. Poltergeists were particularly skilled at creating headaches.

 _His head was woozy. Blood dripped from a cut on his forehead, glass shards littering his skin._

"A friend, perhaps," Harry said, showing his empty, unarmed hands. Though the poltergeists wore a facade of humor and jest, they could be truly dangerous when threatened. "You call yourself Peeves? Very funny."

Peeves smirked, the glow of the telly making his skin glisten. _"Peevsie knows his wit is true. Now, I've told you my name, who are you? 'Tis rude,"_ he tsked.

Harry hedged, debating. Names had power, and Harry had power in spades. He wasn't about to become host to a scheming demon. "Call me . . . Prince."

 _"Prince?"_ the ghost tittered, writhing midair. Harry flinched as Peeves popped right above his head. The poltergeist made a circlet with his hands, settling it over Harry's scalp. He didn't quite touch the psychic - but the proximity was enough to send shivers down Harry's spine. _"More like_ farce," he spat. _"_ _Liar, liar, pants on fire!"_

"You have your moniker, I have mine." Harry stepped out of Peeve's reach, feeling a tell-tale flush of warmth. The floor where he'd just stood was scorched, the smell of fire reaching Harry's nose. A flash of foreign memory shot through him.

 _Gasoline was spilling from the tank; he could hear the engine whistling. It smelt like something was burning._

Peeves scowled. The air began to churn around them, and Harry took another cautious step away. This was not going the way he'd planned.

 _Panicked tears fell, hot and sticky, onto his cheeks. He_ _struggled to unlatch his seat-belt, but his hands ached from clenching the steering wheel. All because of that damned cat, _he was going to die.__

"Your real name, though," Harry persisted. "If I guess it, will you leave this place and pass on peacefully?"

Peeves pressed his lips together, sucking them into his mouth with a thoughtful whistle. _"Mister Prince, you think yourself so clever. What does Peevsie get if you fail in this endeavor?"_

"If I don't guess your name," Harry rubbed his head. "You can use my body for one hour. No less, no more."

The spirit's eyes lit up with greed. _"Agreeable, yes indeed. But we will shake on it,"_ he demanded. The lights flickered dangerously. _"Or_ leave."

Rolling up his sleeves, Harry wondered if this was what they meant by 'a deal with the devil'. Peeves did an excited belly roll. The persistent pounding in his head amplified as the ghost viciously yanked Harry's hand up and down. Pain ricocheting through him, Harry threw his head back.

 _He was an entertainer, a comedian for bars and clubs, famed for his slightly racist and misogynistic jokes. But the audience loved him all the same. He wasn't afraid of speaking the truth. Peter Pettigrew hated liars and always been unfailingly candid._

 _Dressed in a wrinkled, bright orange suit and mouth tasting of scotch, Peter drove home after a successful evening at Zonko's Comedy Club. Though he tried in vain to focus on the road, his mind wandered._

 _He'd met a girl at the club. She was young, pretty and prone to heckling; just his type. Pansy, despite her unfortunate name, was incredibly easy on the eyes. He remembered the delicious curve of her arse and the hint of cleavage._

 _Pansy could very well be his daughter, but Peter never cared much about age differences. In uni, he dated a woman well in her fifties. To be honest, he only went with her to gain the respect of the fraternity boys. She'd been ridiculously botoxed, giving her a severe, pinched appearance. And she always wore the ugliest plaid undergarments, Peter shuddered at the thought. Even so, he missed Missus McGonagall. She'd been a fierce old pussy cat._

 _Almost by chance - or a sick twist of fate - a large brown cat darted in front of his car. Whether the beast was chasing after a mouse or a moth, Peter didn't notice. He jerked the wheel, the beat-up buggy smacking into the curb. The sound of crunching metal and shattered glass filled his ears. Head flinging forward to slam against the steering wheel, all went black momentarily._

 _Then, in an instant, the engine exploded and Peter Pettigrew was consumed in flames. Heat unbearable, smoke suffusing his lungs and burning his throat -_

Harry sucked in a ragged breath, soon deteriorating into a coughing fit as he choked on the musty, dusty air.

A cat meowed. Argus tapped his foot impatiently, face unimpressed. "Get off the floor," Filch barked. "Is the demon gone?"

Harry blinked, looking around. The television was smoking, the lamps burst. Though he couldn't see the man, Harry knew Peeves was still around. Green eyes flickered to the cat. She was anxiously prowling the room, brushing against Filch's leg for comfort.

He shakily stood. "Not yet. Mister Filch?" Harry began. "Do you let your cat outside much?"

Filch's brow furrowed. "To relieve herself, o' course, 'n Missus Norris likes to hunt. It's cruelty, it is, keepin' pets trapped inside like some sorta zoo animal."

"Right," Harry murmured. "Well, I'm quite certain . . . " He felt incredibly stupid saying this. He decided to say it in a rush. "That your cat may have inadvertently killed the man who haunts you."

Argus gaped. "You take that back!"

"I'm sorry, sir. He was driving home one evening and Missus Norris darted out in front of him. He spun out of control and, well, I guess when he died, he followed Missus Norris home."

The man blustered in disbelief. Harry lifted his hands consolingly.

"I swear, pointing blame isn't my intent. I'm just trying to help the spirit pass, and he's holding quite the grudge."

"I'm not apologizing," Filch spat, clutching his hear. "He could have ran over my sweet! Now get rid of that stupid, pathetic poltergeist or get out of my house!"

The air churned around them, causing the windows to shake. Missus Norris slowly rose tail-first into the air. She yowled fearfully.

 _"Pussycat, pussycat, where have you been?"_ Peeves cackled, tossing her into the air. _"Frightening poor Peevsie and making him scream. Pussycat, pussycat, what did you there? You caught your precious mouse and stuck your nose into the air."_

Filch screeched, jumping wildly to catch her. "Put the her down," Harry said sharply. "Put Missus Norris down." The poltergeist showed no sign of stopping. " _N_ _ow_ , Peter."

Missus Norris' body jerked to a stop. There was a second of utter silence before the cat was dropped into Filch's outstretched arms. Peeves vibrated, his now-visible body glowing with disbelief. _"The devil told you that!_ _The devil has told you that!"_

"It's time to move on, Peter. Are you really going to let some grudge with a bloody _cat_ \- " Argus gasped in insult. Harry tactfully ignored him. " - keep you from your next great adventure?"

Peeves tittered softly, glaring at the curled up, frightened feline. _"It's a stupid cat,"_ the man pouted. _"But . . . no . . . I am not."_ For once, he had no reason for riddles or rhymes. The poltergeist blew Filch a raspberry and disappeared with a resounding _pop._

 _Was it really that easy?_ Harry waited a moment longer, the house utterly silent. _Apparently it was._

Filch was relieved, Missus Norris was whimpering and Harry had a killer headache. "Oh, poor Missus Norris . . . "

Harry was paid handsomely and shuffled out of the house so Filch could properly pamper his darling feline. Harry had a feeling Missus Norris wouldn't be let outside for a long while.

As he returned to Charing Cross, Harry let worry mar his tiredly triumphant attitude. Blue and red lights blared up ahead. Harry hurried down the street, gaze darting to _The Hut,_ hoping Hagrid hadn't nearly burnt the shop down again. Instead of a fire-truck, an ambulance was pulled up to _Borgin & Burkes' Antiquities. _A stretcher was being pushed into the back, the tarp pulled over a human-shaped mound.

"Harry, dear!" Olympe shouted from her front door, waving him in. Harry clutched his tourmaline necklace anxiously. The café was empty.

"What happened?" Harry slipped onto a stool. "Is Mister Borgin . . . ?"

The woman grimaced, looking pale and ill. "He's had a heart attack," she told him. "Poor Pomona found him collapsed behind the counter." Harry nodded slowly. Pomona ran a flower shop opposite Borgin's and took it on herself to bring the crotchety old man lunch each day; it must've been a horrible thing for the chipper woman to witness.

Harry was only relieved Borgin seemed to have passed on peacefully. Balthazar Borgin certainly deserved an afterlife of rest.

Few were so lucky.

* * *

 ** _To be continued . . ._**


	2. The Fall

_**False Prophets**_

 **TanninTele**

* * *

 _Disclaimer: All rights belong to J.K. Rowling, voiding that of original content and characters._

* * *

NEIL: _"So, does everyone come back as a ghost?"_

NORMAN: _"No. My grandma told me it's usually people that still have stuff to figure out,_

 _or sometimes it's the ones who died suddenly or in a bad way."_

 _\- Paranorman,_ Focus Features

* * *

 **II:**

"Not another one, Ron," an exasperated voice echoed through the street.

"Oh, there's no harm in it, really."

Harry felt the ghost's energy before the door's bell even began to jingle. He nearly groaned aloud, entirely fed up with poltergeists and their antics. But, despite this spirit's mischievous demeanor, he was _not_ a poltergeist. The medium turned around, feeling cold breath on his neck, and came face-to-face with a red-haired demon.

Green eyes widened in surprise.

 _"He's a real one!"_ the ghost exclaimed, clapping his hands. _"Oh, god, you don't know how long we've been searching for someone like you."_

Harry peered into the shop, spotting a lanky, red-haired boy. He had an iron-clad grip on his girlfriend, a stern-faced, dark-skinned girl with hair messier than even Harry's. "Ron, honestly," the girl hissed. "I don't know why you persist in this. A psychic isn't going to help George. He needs therapy and closure, not a charlatan spouting half-hearted consolations and lies."

 _"That's Hermione,"_ the ghost informed, flitting about the room. _"My baby brother finally got himself a girl with a backbone. I haven't been able to congratulate him, though, since - well - "_ he gestured to himself. He nudged Harry forward, his hand going straight through Harry's spine. _"Do it. Tell him."_

Harry cleared his throat. "Hello. Can I help you?"

The ginger looked up with a jolt, clearly having not heard Harry's entrance. His face flushed in embarrassment. "Er, yeah. I'm Ron, and this is my girlfriend, Hermione." She was looking intently at the portraits on the walls, ignoring Harry's presence all together. "This is a psychic shop, right? It doesn't really look like the ones we've been to."

Harry gave a shy smile. "I'm not much for scented candles and beaded curtains."

It was then that Hermione looked at him, highly dubious. "You aren't a _real_ psychic, are you? I mean, it's all just pseudoscience and psychology."

"Expecting an old lady in shawls, were you?" Harry arched a dark brow. "We're not all shams, you know."

The girl huffed, sending a glance to her boyfriend.

Harry moved around to sit as his desk. "Sit down, please. Lemon drop?" he pushed forward a bowl of candies. He'd gotten the treats at _Honeydukes,_ his friend Albus' candy shop. "You're here for a reason, obviously."

"What? Did you _predict_ our arrival?" Hermione sneered, refusing to sit.

"No," Harry said calmly. "But I did, however, overhear you speaking about 'closure'."

Ron perked up, his cheeks puckered from the candy. "Yeah! Closure, for my brother, George. He's been a horrid sulk since Fred died."

The ghost nodded furiously, crossing his arms. _"Poor sod can't seem to go on without me."_

"A very noble pursuit," Harry said. "Were Fred and George twins?"

Hermione's head snapped up.

Looking incredibly pleased, Ron passed forward a folded picture. Fred peered over Harry's shoulder, smiling sadly. It was of his entire family; all of them red-headed and freckle-faced, smiling broadly at the camera. Behind them were the Great Pyramids of Egypt. In the picture, Fred and George were standing shoulder-to-shoulder, wearing matching white shawls around their heads. The two were perfectly identical, with the same rogish smirks and lively brown eyes. Fred would've grown into a handsome adult if he'd made it past adolescence.

"That was the last picture we took of him," Ron's lips tightened. "Before . . . "

Hermione clenched his hand, showing a firm support. Harry's gaze flickered up to Fred, who stared at the couple with an indescribable look. Perhaps it was envy, for a close relationship he'd never have again. Harry released a long sigh, bringing his shields down slowly, just enough for Fred to notice. The ghost looked down, strength flooding through his grey, tired presence.

 _"I hope you can help me,"_ the man said. _"But - don't let me pass on just yet. I_ _'ve got to say goodbye to George, first."_

Harry nodded in understanding, clearing his throat. "Perhaps it would be best if your brother was here, too," he said lowly. "Why wasn't he with you today?"

"We've been to so many people," Hermione spoke up. "Therapists, priests, other so-called 'spiritual healers'," the girl rolled her eyes. "After a while, it felt like a waste of time. George would get his hopes up, only for them to be dashed. No one could help him. No one could really . . . _connect_ with him in the way Fred could."

Fred released a pained, mournful noise.

"Twins share a special bond." Harry said softly. "He likely feels like he's missing a piece of himself."

"That's . . . almost exactly how George described it." Ron stared at Harry in poorly-veiled appreciation. "I think . . . I think we'll come back. With him, next time, if we can get him to move from his couch. Just, swear to me - " Ron's blue eyes blazed suddenly, with a fierce protectiveness and tentative hope. "That you won't break his heart. If you're a fraud, just admit to it now, and we'll never speak again. Just . . . "

"I promise," Harry said firmly.

 _"Say you solemnly swear it,"_ Fred said insistently.

"I solemnly swear."

Their eyes went huge. A grin, just as large, split across Ron's face. He grabbed Hermione's wrist, whispering furiously. "See, I _told_ you it would be worth it - "

Just before they left, Harry spoke up once more. "Oh, Ron? Your brother . . . he says," the boy smirked. "That he's proud you found a girl just as stubborn as you are." Fred's laughter and Ron's excited chatter soon faded away.

Harry leaned his head back, shaking it in amusement. As he did, the backfire of a car shot through the alley. Harry blinked, sitting up from his desk chair.

A moving van was parked in the narrow street, black rubber tires bobbing up and down as the driver stepped out. Harry didn't recognize the man, seeing only his dark head of hair and tall form. The man moved swiftly, unlatching the truck's roll-up door. With a _clang,_ it opened, and a ramp was soon brought out.

Muscles of his arm tensing, the man collected a few boxes, stacking them on top of each other. He approached the door of _Borgin & Burkes', _sticking a key into the lock. It swung open, and the man disappeared into the shop.

Harry sat back in amazement.

Borgin _just_ died a few weeks ago, and someone was already taking over his shop.

The man moved between the truck and the house a few times, carting along crates of home appliances and clothing. It became clear that he was moving into the space above Borgin's. Until now, the rooms had been used for storage. Every shop on Knockturn had a second level equipped with plumbing and gas; most of the shop-owners had their own houses outside of London, but not Harry.

It seemed he would be getting a new neighbor.

Lockhart's words pried at him, a cruel reminder of Harry's bitter lonesomeness. _'You need some friends outside those ghouls of yours'._ Harry wasn't one to bring over casseroles, but he supposed he could _try_ and make friends.

But . . . tomorrow, maybe. Once things had settled.

* * *

A week passed.

 _"Hadrian, please,"_ Helena begged, her ethereal form drifting into the bathroom with him. Glittering like moonlight, her dress was long and flowing. Her hair was plaited back in dark curls, though something seemed to be missing. Helena Ravenclaw was a ghost of an Albanian heiress; a queen without her crown. That fact made her angrier than a rattlesnake, with a poisonous sting to go with.

Harry glared at her through the mirror, spitting out his toothpaste. " _Privacy_ , Helena, we've talked about this," he shoved the drawer closed. "You're lucky I'm not using the loo."

The ghost waved a negligent hand. _"You are not attracted to me, nor I to you. I see no problem."_

"What a relief," he said wryly. "All I'm asking is for a bit of space."

Pouting, the ghost faded away. Clenching the sink, Harry visualized a noose around his throat. It seemed this month would never end. Carding his fingers through his hair, Harry deemed himself ready.

 _"Now, to the crux of the matter,"_ Helena reappeared, following him downstairs. _"You_ must _speak to the new shopkeeper. He has nearly sold my diadem twice. I've been able to stall him by dropping a few things,"_ her plump lips stretched into a sly smile.

"Nothing priceless, I hope."

In a manner of seconds, her pretty features contorted into an ugly scowl. _"He takes little care for_ my _priceless heirlooms, so why should I care for his, hmm?"_

Harry sighed. As the boy opened up shop, he noticed a dark green flyer taped to the window. Reading it backwards, disbelief flooded through him. _Borgin & Burkes' _was having a Grand Re-Opening sale. In all the years Harry'd been at Knockturn, the antiquity had never sold an item for anything less than market value. Borgin would feel disgraced; but Harry couldn't deny the sale had garnered a crowd. _"See!"_ Helena crowed. _"He is giving away relics at random. It's disrespectful, careless, outrageous!"_

"You go on ahead," Harry said idly, pushing open the door. "I will try and speak with the shopkeep. What's his name?"

Helena snarled. _"Tom Riddle."_

Overcome by curiosity, it wasn't until he stepped into the shop that Harry realized the sale wasn't what attracted such a mob. It was the shopkeeper, himself.

Riddle was single-handedly manning the counter, sorting out change in a matter of instants, deftly wrapping the purchases in white tissue paper. Barely flinching as some child knocked over a glass vase, he swept up the shattered bits and graciously accepted the mother's apologies and monetary reimbursement. The man was a natural; much like Severus had once been.

Not to mention he was gorgeous.

 _Borgin & Burkes' _looked much the same, but the haphazard disorder had a sort of charm to it, now. A record player warbled some tune Harry vaguely recognized. The relics had been thoroughly dusted, with only the best on display - beautiful jewels, pearl necklaces, a thick gold locket and a silver diadem sparkled in their display cases. They were placed purposefully near the entrance, causing client's eyes to light up greedily as they passed, wistful fingers gliding over the display glass.

Harry carefully stepped around the shelf full of porcelain tea-cups, designed with lavender, ivy and all manner of painstakingly miniscule works of art. Overlarge milk jugs were used as containers for old toys, a shelf above them holding faded, mismatched building blocks. They were positioned to read ' _WELCOME'._ In the corner, a suit of armor was decorated with a faux-fur shawl, a feathery hat and a checkered apron. Model aeroplanes dangled from the ceiling, a group of children gaping at the toy train whistling around a metal track.

It was a museum of lost things, ghosts of memories wisping around Harry with a liveliness they'd never had before. The Grey Lady, haunting her silver diadem, stood protectively next to the display case. Her glare was frigid.

Helena was very adamant against passing on. She'd died protecting her mother's crown and would gladly sacrifice her afterlife for the same cause. With Harry's intervention, Borgin had come to an agreement with Helena. He tried, once, to sell it to a collector, but the man returned it not a day later, looking frazzled and frightened, claiming Borgin sold cursed items.

So the diadem stayed and Helena with it.

She wanted it to go to her closest descendant, but Harry had no damn idea who that was. For now, perhaps Harry could convince the new manager to take the diadem off the market. With every lingering glance at the diadem, Helena was becoming steadily more agitated, the floorboards rattling ever so imperceptibly.

"I love shops like these. They're so . . . quaint!" A dark haired girl gushed. Riddle smiled tightly, wrapping her vintage perfume bottle. The tissue paper looked delicate in his long, elegant hands. In the dark lantern light, his features were cast into shadow, showing only a hint of sharp cheekbones and gleaming eyes.

He waved the woman off with an idle, "Enjoy," and turned to the next customer.

Helena's vitriolic gaze on his back, Harry waited until Riddle had a free moment. "Sir?" he started warily.

When Riddle noticed his empty hands, the man nodded towards a back hall. "Bathroom's that way."

"I know," Harry's lips quirked. "I've been here before. Mister Borgin was a friend of mine. I'm Harry Prince." He hadn't given anyone his real name in years, and wasn't about to start now.

The man's back straightened, allowing him to go to his full height. Harry felt like a midget in comparison. "I wasn't aware my uncle had any friends. Noteworthy ones, at least." He said this with a hint of sarcasm.

Harry ignored the slight jab. "Uncle?"

"Evidently," he agreed. "Tom Riddle. It's a pleasure," the man stuck out a hand, his handshake rigid.

"My condolences about Balthazar. I'm sure his store is in good hands," Harry was laying it on quite thick.

 _"Get on with it,"_ Helena snapped. The lights flickered and Tom glanced up, frowning.

Harry took in a deep breath and began haltingly. "I'm sorry if this is horribly straight forward, but Mister Borgin had an . . . arrangement with another friend of mine. In exchange for Balthazar keeping that diadem," Harry tapped the display case lightly. Helena released a warning hiss. "Borgin wasn't to sell it until the right proprietor came around. With the new management, my friend is _very_ insistent that Balthazar's side of the bargain be upheld."

Riddle arched a tall brow, looking vaguely affronted. "I'd be happy to speak with your _friend_ on this matter, but you must understand that I have a _business_ to run. That diadem has garnered many potential buyers. I'm doing all I can to follow my Uncle's will, but I've also got a business to manage. Waiting for the 'right collector' isn't exactly a priority." He spoke coldly, his politeness menacing.

Wincing away, Harry covered his ears as Helena snarled. She slammed her hand onto the counter, a spider web of cracks spreading. _"You stubborn fool,"_ she screeched, her voice vibrating through the shop. A flood of gasps resounded as the shelf of tea cups leaned forward precariously. _"I've tried being_ nice."

The floor quaked and the porcelain cups fell in a shower of white. Riddle's charming facade faltered, confusion clouding his dark eyes. "Helena," Harry whispered in warning. Her long hair was splayed, tangling midair. The tattered remains of her dress fluttered and whirled in a tornado of smoky tendrils. Harry leaned forward, trying not to alert the startled crowd. "If you know what's good for you, you'll hide that damn crown."

Riddle's brow furrowed to a fork. About to protest, his words were cut off as the shop went dark. Screams filled their ears; the ceiling shuddered, shelves rattling violently. "Alright, alright!" Riddle's fingers scrambled for a ring of keys, swiftly opening the case and stuffing the diadem beneath the pile of tissue paper.

Everything went silent.

By the time the lights returned - Tom having to go fix the circuit breaker - Harry was long gone.

* * *

It was nine in the evening, and Harry was usually not open for business so late. He debated ignoring the man's arrival but, as the man's hand raised to rap at the door again, Harry decided it wouldn't do well for him to get off on the wrong foot with any potential business. In one swift movement, Harry unlocked the door and held it open only a crack, the chain catching. A single green eye peered outside, quickly scrutinizing the solicitor. "Good day," he murmured, voice tremulous. "Is there something I can do for you?"

There was a long pause, before he spoke, the tenor deep. "I'm sure there is, lad. Are you Hadrian Prince?" The man was dressed fastidiously in a dark blue suit, his blonde hair tied to the back of his scalp. He was intimidatingly tall, though he seemed to be lacking when it came to bulk. Harry pursed his lips for a moment before nudging the door shut so he could fully unlatch it.

"I am," Harry acknowledged. "And you are?"

"Lucius Malfoy," he purred, extending a gloved hand. "I was a friend of Severus."

Harry's lips parted in a delicious _'o'._ The man took his chance, stepping in with a single large step. A thin eyebrow arched as he inspected the shop. "I daresay I never thought I'd see the day this old place would be fixed up. You living here alone, boy?"

Harry blinked. "I do."

"Hm. You're very much like your former employer. No wonder Severus was fond of you."

Mister Malfoy found his one way to the desk, settling himself atop the chair. "I'd like to extend my condolences. Severus was a very loyal, commendable man. We attended school together."

"Did you?" Harry asked in surprise.

"Yes, indeed. I gave him his first down payment for this very shop," Lucius ran a finger across the table top. "I'm very glad to see you've maintained it, although your services are very different from Severus'. Those particular skills are, in fact, what I'm interested in today."

"You - " Harry looked the man up and down. "Really?"

Lucius smirked. _"Really._ My son has recently suffered a loss that has rendered him . . . prone to rebellious thoughts. His fiancee was struck ill, and he feels _guilty_ for some odd reason. I would like you to speak with him, and assuage these ridiculous notions of his." The man's nose crinkled with distaste. "I will pay you quite handsomely, of course."

"Grieving is _not_ ridiculous."

"Perhaps not, but my son is heir to a very prestigious corporation. If he is to follow in my place and become chief executive, he must learn to place his emotions aside in favor of duty."

"For _duty?"_ Harry shook his head. "You are a cruel man, Mister Malfoy. Some claim that psychics thrive off the exploitation of others, but what you do is far worse. _Pain_ is all you're bound to cause if you continue to torture your own son like this."

Lucius stood with a furious expression. "I will _not_ be spoken to like this. I'll just have to take my services _elsewhere._ There is a Madame Sybill Trelawney in London, is there not?" he goaded.

"A match made in heaven; an insensitive father and an incompetent Seer," Harry got to his feet, heading toward the door. "Her fatalistic prophecies will traumatize your son to the point he'd rather die a horrific death than be anything like _you_ , Mister Malfoy."

Fuming, Malfoy's clicked across the shop, his hands balled into tight fists. "In that case," he stated tightly. "I suppose my welcome has been overstayed. If I were you," his voice went dark. "I would learn to _curb my tongue_ before someone gets the urge to _cut it off."_ Malfoy locked his shoulders back. "Don't say I didn't warn you."

He left in his sleek black mobile, the engine rumbling away, leaving a nimbus of dust in its wake. Scowling, Harry slammed the door behind him.

He didn't take men like Malfoy seriously. They were all bravado and flash, using big words to cut others down. Lesson learned; never trust a man with _that_ blonde of hair.

* * *

"Thanks for the ride, Albus," Harry said gratefully, sliding into the passenger seat of Albus' heavily painted Volkswagen.

The old beamed at him, yellow teeth glinting in the sunlight. "Your presence has never been an inconvenience, my boy." A bony hand patted his leg. Albus' age was undefinable. Though his hair was a shade of pure white and his tan skin was wrinkled with callouses and smile lines, the man wore it with a youthful countenance. His hair was in beaded braids going down to the midst of his back. Matching his eyes, Albus was dress in a vivid, sky blue blouse with billowing sleeves. His feet were confined in brown leather boots, the laces undone. Just as tasteful, a roaring lion was painted onto the side of his van, the mane an array of technicolor flames. It was a relic from the 60s, when Albus was teaching culture and arts at a nearby college. His students took it upon themselves to decorate his car, and Albus never looked back.

Dumbledore began to chatter on about his new line of every-flavor jelly beans that Harry was in no hurry to taste-test.

Severus had absolutely hated Dumbledore, though he never gave a reason. Albus had taught the apothecarian once-upon-a-time, but Dumbledore wasn't fit to be a teacher. After his teaching license was suspended for 'unfounded' allegations, the man set up shop only a few blocks away. He gleefully discovered that he could enable his insatiable sweet-tooth _and_ make a living. The two men became rivals, Severus selling herbs and mixtures that _healed_ people, while Albus' craft rotted teeth and made people _feel_ good.

They were such opposites that Harry's attachment to them both seemed outlandish. Albus was the grandfather figure Harry'd never known.

When Severus died, Albus dragged Harry to _Pandora's Recovery Center_ twice each month for grief support. _"I think, you more than anyone, needs support from the living. Clairvoyancy or not, you're still as human as the rest of us,"_ Albus had told him, gently wiping Harry's tears. _"Numbing the pain for a while will make it worse when you finally feel it. It's alright to grieve."_

Luna Lovegood and her father started the organization, in honor of their mother and wife, to help other grieving souls with recovery and closure. Luna, especially, had been an angel. She was empathetic almost to the point of supernatural ability. Dean, Hestia and Albus were all struggling with their own loses, but welcomed Harry with open arms. It was a neutral, soothing place where Harry didn't feel obligated to alleviate a spirit's unfinished business. When he did help, it was for his friends, people that he knew would benefit from a few parting words with their loved ones. Harry was able to feel _selfish_ for once, to focus on his own grieving.

" - the moral of the story is that change is inevitable. Except from a vending machine, of course."

Harry stared. " . . . what?"

Albus glanced at him, laughing. "You dozed off, my boy. How's your blood sugar?" Not taking his eyes off the crowded road, Albus reached back and fondled for a plastic bag. The candies toppled into Harry's lap, Albus' hand lingering a minute to grab a lolly. Tearing the package off with his teeth, he spoke around the cherry orb. "You really do look peaky, Harry. Try the dark chocolate, it's imported from Peru."

Harry eyed the chocolate warily. He never developed much of a taste for sweets, really, having grown up on day-old leftovers scavenged from rubbish bins, or dry bread, courtesy of his aunt Pulling into a small, unmarked building, Harry tried to relax. Luna could always sense if he was stressed, and Harry didn't like drawing attention to himself. "Finish the bar," Albus warned, nodding as Harry stuffed the rest into his mouth.

Exiting the van, Harry's nose crinkled as he stepped out into a trail of green fluid. It smelled sickeningly sweet, much like the _Honeydukes_ products, which was likely why neither of them identified it before. "Albus, you've got a leak."

The older man sighed. With his arms full of candy, Albus pushed open the front door with his back. "Life is just like that, isn't it?"

"Like what?" A soft, dreamy voice spoke up. Sitting cross-legged atop a beanbag, Luna's clear, crystalline eyes fixated on the two men.

Albus grinned. He took off his shoes and vibrant wool socks, burying his toes into the soft rug. "Full of leaks. Here you are, dear," he pressed a pudding-flavored lolly into her hands. "Something nearly as sweet as you."

Luna held it reverently to her chest. "Very sweet of you, professor."

"Not professor anymore," he tsked. "'Candy connoisseur.'"

"Is that what we're calling it?" Dean Thomas asked in bemusement, sticking a paintbrush behind his ear. "I was certain you were some sort of demon, nefariously spreading goodwill and cheer among us weak mortals, only to leech off our joy."

"That too." Albus admitted.

 _Pandora's_ was really quite homey, with gentle music playing and the walls painted a cool blue. Drawings twined across the walls, names signed in swooping paint next to faded hand prints. Quotes and symbols were drawn, each encouraging or meaningful to a patient. The centerpiece of it all was a mural that spanned several meters. It was of the late Pandora Lovegood in a field of poppies, head thrown back in laughter, sunlight filtering through her flaxen hair. Dean was an amazing artist, his art less of a facsimile and more of a memory, eerie in it's likeness. He wasn't quite finished with it, jars of paint surrounding him.

Luna seemed inordinately pleased with the mural. She was strikingly like her mother, her blonde hair free flowing and her soft features needing no makeup. She wore a white sundress, flowers stitched into the hemline. Her small smile sent a wave of fondness through Harry. "Sit down, Harry. Let me fix your hair." Rolling his eyes, Harry sat cross-legged on the floor in front of her. Nimble fingers carded his hair, putting it in a short braid. "We've invited a friend of yours to join us today She's become quite a fan of your work."

"Oh?" Harry murmured. He picked at a speckle of paint in the carpet.

Soon enough, Hestia Jones stepped in with Padma Patil in tow, the younger dressed in her usual glasses and blouse. The girl smiled shyly at Albus, declining his swooping gesture toward the table of provided food.

"Hello, Mister Prince," she said, sitting tentatively beside him.

Harry smiled in surprise. "You're not my client, Padma. This is a safe place. Call me Harry, please," his words seemed to settle her nerves. "I'm glad to see you're doing well. How do you know Hestia?" Harry's eyes darted to the tall, lean woman inspecting Dean's work. The dark-skinned man looked thrilled at the attention; it was well-known that he had a fierce crush on the unmarried woman. Dean was bisexual, in an on-again, off-again relationship with a flighty, combative Irishman. Things seemed to be 'off' at the moment; this made Dean mercurial with his emotions, cheerful one second and sulking the next. As Hestia turned away, Dean threw himself back into his work with a single-minded fervor. The older woman had tan skin and hair dyed a shade of warm scarlet. She was a secretary at a police station, with a keen eye for people in need.

"Her associate, Officer Diggle was working on Parvati's case."

"Did they find Flint?" Harry asked Padma lowly.

She grinned broadly. "That fucker is behind bars. Diggle caught him at one of his old haunts," the word made Harry flinch. "They matched his DNA to traces of . . . _semen_ in her body."

"I'm glad. The less perverts wandering free, the better. Makes my job easier, certainly," Harry sighed, world-weary. He nudged her lightly. "Your sister's passed on. You did good, Padma."

Her eyes welled and she rubbed them fiercely. "I'd never have done it without you." Her gratitude was genuine. Harry remembered that night in the bathroom, and - seeing Padma's watery smile - knew that the violation was well worth the pain.

* * *

The moment Harry stepped into _The Hut,_ he could sense something was awry.

Riddle was here.

His familiar head of dark brown hair was hunched over a cup of tea, expression unreadable as Gilderoy chatted him up. Pomona was gleefully tearing into her bagel, for the first time able to eat in peace. Madam Hooch was snickering over her cup of Earl Grey (containing more gin than tea), blatantly eyeing up the newest customer. Harry felt that dark gaze on his back as he walked to the counter. It wasn't like he was _avoiding_ Tom Riddle; he was merely making a tactical evasion.

"I'll take my breakfast to go, Olympe," he murmured to the woman.

"Why can't you stay a while, 'arry?" she asked, her accent purring. "Have you met our newest _neighbor?_ "

"We've met," Harry said, his eyes shadowed from a lack of sleep. "While I'd love to stay, I've got an appointment this morning with a grieving family," his lips tugged downward. "I've already met the mother; her youngest son fell out of a tree while playing with his brother. The brother is . . . distraught." The mother's exact words were _'hellish and hysterical'._ Being a teenager himself, Harry distinctly remembered the sort of hell a thirteen year old could raise when they felt slighted by the world.

Olympe covered her mouth. "How horrid. That poor child."

"Speaking of 'children', Where is your husband?"

Olympe laughed. "Hagrid is on a camping trip with his brother. Grawp is . . . quite a bad influence on him, I must say." Harry fought a laugh, trying to be sympathetic, but she pronounced the name 'Greppur' poorly. It was an Icelandic name Fridwulfa had bestowed to her favorite son; the man was large and childish, a less sensible version of Hagrid.

"He'll be fine," His gaze flickered to the kitchen, where a girl named Tonks - a temp - was wildly trying to extinguish a billow of black smoke. "Perhaps you should be more worried about your replacement chef. . ." Olympe swiveled around, her expression enraged. She swore in rapid French, darting in back with a red fire retardant.

"You idiotic girl!"

Sensing his breakfast would be delayed, Harry simply shook his head and sat at a stool. He rubbed his eyes tiredly. Simply ignoring Riddle seemed to be an impossibility. Harry's cheeks tinged pink as their gazes met for a spell, green against a dark, bottom-of-the-ocean blue.

He was grateful when Olympe returned, features tight with exasperation. Harry's toast and eggs were crisp around the edges - alright, less crisp and more burnt black, smelling of ash - but Harry chose not to comment beyond a knowing smirk.

Olympe scowled at him. "Just eat your damned food, boy. Nearly burnt down my shop for those eggs, let me tell you."

* * *

"I don't _want_ to!"

Harry winced as the boy, Colin, loudly argued with his poor mother. Missus Creevey was at her wit's end, her curly, straw-like hair going grey at the roots and frizzing at the tips. "Please, Colin," she begged. "Just _try - "_

"Fine," he hissed, just to shut her up. "I'll _try._ But let it be known that this is utter bullshite." He zipped up his black hoodie in an attempt to curl into himself, blue eyes blaring. "I know that you're into all this spiritual stuff, but there's no such thing as ghosts. He's _dead,_ and that's the end of it. He's not coming back, and you'd be bloody crazy to think Dennis would want to stick around after hitching the quickest ride out of this hellhole."

 _"Colin,"_ his little brother whispered. _"Don't be mean to mum."_ The spirit wrung his flannel shirt, revealing, underneath, a blue Superman t-shirt. Dennis was around eight, with bright blonde hair that was filtered with white light, like a halo. His features were soft and young, but Harry could see - and smell, distinctly so - the blood and dirt caked onto his skin.

Missus Creevey was close to tears, staring despondently at her eldest.

Harry decided to step in. "If she's insane, then I must be too. Clinically so."

The boy jolted at Harry's sudden entrance. His mouth fell open. " _You're_ the nut that mum hired?"

 _"He'll warm up to you,"_ Dennis whispered, tugging experimentally at Harry's hair. _"Colin doesn't like anyone, anymore."_

"The nut?" Harry smiled, moving to his desk. "Yes. I'm the spirit communicator. And I'm well aware how crazy that sounds, but it's been my reality since I was a child. Now, sit down and stop yelling at your mother. She doesn't deserve that sort of treatment."

Colin plopped into the adjacent seat, almost against his own will. Whether it be Harry's young age that endeared him to Colin, or his free admittance of potential insanity, Harry was grateful. Missus Creevey, looking small in an overlarge sweater, sat shakily beside him. Despite his earlier comments, Colin instinctively leaned towards his mother, seeking her reassurance. They looked strikingly alike, although Colin's hair was more honey-colored and his eyes a shade of fierce, determined sky blue.

"Your mum tells me that you've suffered a loss," Harry began gently.

The boy snorted, looking disgusted. "I hate when people say that; that I've 'suffered a loss', like you're afraid to say his name."

"Dennis, then. Your brother. He died."

Colin paused, before nodding.

"I've had many people claim that they don't believe in spirits," Harry started again. "I understand it completely. Skepticism is important in daily live, but overt skepticism - the kind that drives a person to be distrustful of _everything_ and of everyone - can originate from anger, or fear, or grief. With you, it's all three, I can bet."

The boy let out an insulted noise. "I'm not _scared - "_

"Everyone's scared of death, Colin," Harry said plainly.

 _But Dennis was fearless. Humming a hearty little tune as he hiked up the trail, he absentmindedly stepped over a thick brown limb that lay on the forest floor. Belatedly, he glanced over his shoulder, and shot out a quick warning. 'Watch out for that -' His warning came a moment too late, however. A strangled grunt was heard, shortly followed by a painful-sounding thump against the hard soil. His brother had been lagging behind for so long that Dennis had almost forgotten Colin was following him. Colin_ _groaned loudly as Dennis peered over his fallen body, giggling to himself._

"Before your brother died, I bet the idea of death never even crossed your mind. But it can happen to anyone, at any point in their lives. To the old . . . and to the young. Your brother didn't deserve to die," Harry's voice went soft. "But me saying that still doesn't change anything."

 _'Wipe that bloody look off your face,' Colin muttered darkly, grabbing onto Dennis' hand._ _Shoulders hunched in exhaustion, Colin shook off his backpack and let out a relieved sigh at the release of pressure. The bag probably wasn't easy to carry, not with the amount of camera equipment he had packed_

 _'You're taking forever,' Dennis informed him. 'Do you want to see the waterfall or not?'_ _He flicked the hair from his eyes._ _There was a slight chill in the air, the wind making the towering trees wave and shed their golden leaves. _Autumn was upon them, with winter approaching rapidly. Dennis was determined to spend all his time outside before a heavy snowfall could trap them inside. Colin only tagged along for his digital photography class. Colin was practically attached to his camera, the device like a second limb. Dennis didn't mind; after all, he was one of Colin's favorite subjects.__

"I'm not here to tell you that you can't be angry, that you can't grieve. I'm here to help you realize that you're not alone. Your mother is grieving," Harry nodded at her. "And your brother . . . Dennis is sad, too."

Colin's bravado melted away, leaving behind a bewildered expression. "What do you mean?"

"Dennis hasn't left you, Colin," Harry tilted his head. "Somehow, he knew that you'd be affected the worse by his death. He knew that you'd be angry - at the world, at him, at your mother . . . at yourself. He stayed behind, unable to help, but desperately _wanting_ to."

Colin lifted his chin, glancing around angrily. "Prove it. If he's here, _prove it."_

 _"I'm here, Collie,"_ Dennis sniffled, moving around to whisper into his brother's ear. _"I should have listened to you. You told me to be careful, but I didn't listen. I didn't mean to fall. My shoelace got caught on a branch, and I just . . . "_ He shrugged helplessly.

 _Boots clomping against the muddy earth, Dennis stared up at the sky, seeing a distant billow of clouds. He concentrated hard, convinced that he could control clouds with his mind. By sheer force of will, he split one in half and created a gaping hole in another._

 _Colin merely rolled his eyes at Dennis' antics. His gaze suddenly caught on an outcrop of wildflowers, sitting in a field of grass. The sun peeked through the tree branches, casting a golden glow over them. He dropped his backpack excitedly, pulling out his camera. 'I'll be right back, Dennis. Don't do anything stupid.'_

"You're a photographer," Harry said, biting his lip. "You and Dennis went onto a hike, because you wanted to photograph a waterfall."

"We never did make it," Colin muttered beneath his breath. "But mum probably told you that."

Harry took a deep breath. "When you thought Dennis would be distracted cloud watching, you went off to take a picture of some flowers. You told him not to be stupid, but he didn't listen."

 _Dennis played with a low-hanging branch, leaping wildly to grasp it. His feet left the ground, bouncing up and down as the branch bent under his weight. Letting out a huff, Dennis stared at the tree, considering._

"I have his camera," Missus Creevey blurted, reaching for her purse. "He hasn't taken any pictures since that day."

Colin turned betrayed, confused eyes onto his mother. In her hands was an expensive black camera, the lens carefully protected and the neck strap well-worn. He snatched it from her hands. "Mum! I've told you not to touch my stuff!"

"May I see the pictures?" Harry asked softly.

Colin, his blue eyes distrusting, reluctantly passed over the camera. Harry handled it carefully, pressing the _Play_ button. A slideshow of film slid past on the screen. Blonde hair and toothy grins greeted Harry, intermixed with a few sunsets and close-ups of bugs. Harry swallowed tightly as a grassy trail was shown, a lens flare giving the photo a white glow. "These are really good," he informed Colin, smiling at a monarch butterfly caught mid-flap. "I have a friend, Dean Thomas, who's a painter - but he's got a few contacts at a school for creative arts." Harry handed back the camera and scribbled out a number. "Here. If you're interested."

 _Taking in a few deep breaths, Dennis leapt again, sneakers scrambling against the bark. Brown chunks crumbled away. Dennis hoisted himself onto another tree limb, the rough texture cutting into his palms. Though the soft skin stung and burned red, Dennis persisted. A proud grin stretched across his cheeks. His white shoelaces dangled a foot or so, tangling with the branches. 'Colin!' he shouted._ _Colin's figure was but a distant silhouette, crouched in front of a purple wildflower. '_ _Colin!' Dennis pulled himself to the highest branches. He brushed back his hair, sweat dripping into his smile._

 _Colin finally stood, turning around. Camera to his face, his flash went off - a vivid flash of white._ _Waving a hand, Dennis lost his grasp. His foot slid, shoelaces stuck beneath his soles._

"I don't know if I can find the passion for it again," Colin murmured, crinkling the note.

"Your brother needs you to be strong," Harry leaned forward. "For him to pass on, he needs to know that you'll be alright; that you'll keep taking pictures, and you won't push away the people that love you."

Missus Creevey gave him a watery smile.

 _The fall was both exhilarating and terrifying. His arms and legs flailed in the air. Colin jolted forward as if to catch him, his shouts intermixing with the wind whistling in Dennis' ears. The last thing he saw before hitting the ground was a cloud above him, a gaping hole filling it's white fluff before dissipating into the air._

Fingers tightening on his camera, a tear slipped, as if in slow motion, onto the screen. Colin stared at the digital photo of his brother, while behind him, Dennis' ethereal figure was finally relaxing. He brushed his fingers against Colin's shoulder, a shiver going down the boy's spine. Colin looked up at his mother, nodding determinedly. "Can we go, mum?" he brought the camera's strap around his neck. "I want to get these pictures developed. So . . . so I can take new ones."

Missus Creevey lit up, dragging her son's head of blonde hair to her bosom. "Of course we can." She kissed his forehead briefly, letting him go before Colin could protest. Missus Creevey collected her bag, handing Harry a roll of notes. "A tip for you, Mister Prince." They made to leave.

"Missus Creevey?" he called out, their departure causing a frenzied rush through him. "Your son loved you, you know?"

The woman began to tear up once more, her arm moving to wind around Colin's shoulders. "Tell him that I love him, too."

"He knows. He always did."

Though the door banged shut behind them, Dennis' business wasn't finished. He drifted over to Harry, his body fading, like a drifting cloud. _"It hurts to cry,"_ he whispered, kneeling before the medium. _"I didn't want to do it in front of them. It makes me feel like a baby."_

Harry ran his hand down Dennis' cheek. "It's alright to cry."

Dennis turned his imploring eyes upward, and Harry gave a resigned nod.

Unlike with Parvati, Dennis was gentle with his possession. The feelings of despondency and helplessness flooded him slowly, streaming in like the murky waters of a river delta. Tears began to spill, trickling down pale cheeks. Dennis stuffed a fist in his mouth, the pain from his teeth tearing into his fist. Harry's body was too big for him; taller than his eight-year-old body, wired with lean muscles.

But he felt _human_ again. The emotions were stifling, but it was far better than the all-consuming numbness that death caused. Dennis slid from his desk chair, stumbling toward the backroom. He didn't want to risk the chance of someone wandering in and eavesdropping. Warring childhood memories fought for dominance; his body was torn between remembering Missus Creevey's warm embrace and Colin's eye rolls, intermixed with the Dursley's rough treatment.

Hunkering down in the empty, dark, cold storage room, memories flickered past like film from a strip.

Harry truly felt like a child again.

As such, he napped.

* * *

 _When Harry was too young to realize the visions of the dead were abnormal, he genuinely tried to help them._

 _He's attempted to ask for help, gathering enough courage to briefly question his Aunt about the strange, greyish figures that followed him everywhere. Petunia had stared at him like he was insane, and Harry never asked again._

 _No one but Harry could see the spirits._

 _The boys at school thought him strange, speaking to no one in times of strife and bursting into pained tears when a haunted spirit crept too close. He could feel their despair, their phantom pains like it was his own, hitting him hard when he least expected it. T_ _he shadowy spiders that scuttled at his feet were easy to ignore for the most part. But then there was Missus Figg's scruffy, rotting pet cat, Mister Tibbles, who'd choked on a plastic wrapper - after burying the tabby in the back guardian, Missus Figg didn't believe him when Harry said Whiskers was sitting beside him, wheezing slightly and scratching at it's wiry fur. Of course, she quickly changed her tune when the cat began to haunt her, tripping her as she descended the stairs._ _When Mister Tibbles brushed against him, Harry could somehow feel a lodge in his throat, as if he was the one choking. He didn't mind it. It was all in his head, after all._

 _Running his fingers across Whisker's spine and feeling the faint tickle of fur against his skin, Harry would remember his mother's last words._

 _'I'll do anything.'_

 _'I'll do anything.'_

 _'I'll do anything!'_

 _Tears stained her pale cheeks, dead eyes glinting like a shattered mirror every time their gazes met, accidental or not. Her skin wasn't soft, much less warm; the expanse of flesh was sallow and grey, her hollow cheeks framed by lank hair. From what little Petunia had told him, Lily had died praying. Harry - being only a toddler at the time - barely remembered the car crash. If he concentrated, he could recall a flash of green from the stoplights and a woman's screams. His father died first, his forehead smacking into the steering wheel, blood and glass spraying everywhere. Lily was still conscious, her legs crushed as the hood crunched against a tree. Harry was in back, his smooth, small forehead impaled with a glass shard. It was bleeding profusely and he was wailing, cheeks stained with silver tears. Lily met his watery gaze in the rearview mirror and sobbed, the blood loss hitting her hard._

 _Perhaps she made a wish to fate, asking to save her son's life. She desperately hoped for Harry to_ survive _\- against all odds - and her wish was granted. Harry's brush with death made him special, made him something_ not normal.

 _Harry was grateful for his life, but sometimes wondered if it was worth the pain._

* * *

"Prince," a hand tapped his cheek lightly, the voice becoming louder as Harry woke. He shivered on the cold floor, his eyelashes sticking together. Harry bit back a pained moan, pulling his head away. "Don't move," the voice murmured. "You're not well."

Harry didn't doubt this. Despite Dennis' best efforts, his tender graces left Harry feeling entirely drained.

Harry batted the foreign hands away drowsily. Vision blurry and shadowy around the edges, he murmured "Glasses?" After a pause, cold metal frames were gently placed onto his nose. Disoriented green eyes blinked, his sight clearing.

He recognized the handsome features of Tom Riddle, currently etched in the very definition of concern. "Do you remember me?" Riddle asked, leaning back on his haunches. "How many fingers am I holding?"

"Three. But I'm not concussed." Harry sat up, his body burning and sweat-soaked as though he'd been dunked in a vat of cooking oil. Grasping onto a dusty shelf for leverage, he stood. Riddle hovered nearby, ready to catch him if he fell. "And you're Borgin's nephew."

"Tom," the man insisted. Ignoring him, Harry stumbled over the door's threshold. Warm fingers clasped his elbow, the touch light enough not to be suffocating. "And what else am I supposed to think, people don't just fall asleep on the floor of their storeroom. Let's sit you down."

Harry was led to his desk. He sat heavily, and held his head in one hand, peering distrustfully at the antiquarian. "What're you doing here?"

"Your shop is still open, you know," the man informed, arching a sculpted brow. "It's my lunch break. I came to say hello - as our first impressions were made under duress _-_ when I heard a noise from your storeroom," his lips pressed into a delicate frown. "It looked as though you were having a seizure."

Shaking his head, black curls bounced and fell into Harry's face. "Nothing so common," he hesitated. "Just a bit of backlash from a reading."

Riddle stilled, looking around the shop as though seeing it for the first time.

At initial glance, the shop was largely barren, with several empty shelves and little to no decoration. On closer inspection, Tom saw several books haphazardly shoved into corners, a pile of papers on the desk and a few small paintings nailed to the wall. Most were of landscapes or even just flowers, but the most intricate portrait was of an Asian man. He wore a dour expression and had his long black hair tied at the nape. A silver plaque beneath it read: _Severus Prince 1960-1997._ Tom hid his surprise. Despite their shared surname, Harry and the man looked nothing alike.

Out front, a neon sign simply reading _Psychic Readings_ flickered on and off - the only indication of Harry's profession. "I hadn't pegged you for a medium," Tom mused. "But I suppose that explains the paranormal activity at my shop. Lockhart said you were a bit of an hermit, so the fact you took the time to visit my little shop intrigued me."

"Don't believe a thing Lockhart tells you. He's a horrid gossip."

Tom laughed, the sound dark and sweet like chocolate. "I gleaned that impression myself, thanks. To be fair, he did give me accurate directions here." Beyond that, Lockhart had been useless in his assessment of the Prince boy. He'd made consistent inappropriate comments regarding Harry's figure and something about lace panties that made Tom's blood boil. He had no patience for perverts.

" _The Hut_ is only a block away. And Borgin's shop - "

"Is right next door," Tom smirked. "I fully intend to abuse that fact."

Harry stared at him blankly. "We've spoken once. That doesn't make us friends."

"Were you born this candid, or did ghost-speaking make you a horrible cynic?"

Guilt crept into Harry's face. "God, I'm sorry," The boy moaned, burying his head in his hands. "I just feel terrible. I don't mean to take it out on you."

Tom eyed him, as if considering. "If you really want to make up for your rudeness, can you - I don't know - read me? That is, I'm asking . . . if I have any ghosts?"

Harry need only concentrate for a moment before shaking his head. "No. Your uncle's passed on, if that's who you're thinking of."

Blue eyes blinked before he latched onto the excuse. "Yes. Well, good for him," his words lacked enthusiasm.

"If that's not it," Harry offered. "There is a chance that your 'ghosts' have resolved their unfinished business. Or they died happy, with no reason to stick around."

Tom was quick to change the subject. "So, is my shop haunted?"

Harry ruffled his hair, trying to dispel his minor headache. "Very," he said wryly.

 _"Great._ What should I expect, then?"

"Well, except for Helena, the spirits are mostly benign. Some spirits latch onto family heirlooms or other objects - the reason for that isn't always clear. However, once they've latched on, they're _stuck_ with barely enough power to create a physical manifestation."

"Helena? Is that the spirit that wrecked my shop on _my first day of work?"_ he asked pointedly. "If you haven't noticed, my sales have dropped dramatically because customers think my bloody teacups are possessed."

"Er, yes," Harry said awkwardly. "Before her death in the 1800s, Helena was tasked with protecting the diadem - her mother's crown. Rumor said it was made by faeries and could grant boundless intelligence. Helena was relentlessly pursued by thieves, and she hid the diadem just before being stabbed through the heart. Her devotion was so intense that it surpassed the afterlife. The only way she'd be willing to pass on would be relinquishing the diadem to her closest descendant - but, trust me, it's impossible," Harry grimaced. "Balthazar and I searched for a very long time, but Helena's family name died out several centuries ago. Eventually, Balthazar gave up and compromised with Helena - via me, of course - to never sell the diadem. This, at least, assured it's safety; better in the hands of a man that worshipped antiques than a total stranger."

Tom accepted this easily. "Perhaps she and I can strike a new deal. Would you help me with this? After you've rested, of course."

"Helena would appreciate that."

"I certainly hope so - I can't afford to break anymore teacups."

Despite the pleasantness of his company, Harry was dead tired. Sensing the weariness in those green eyes, Tom checked his watch, the golden face polished. "My lunch break is over. I'd best get back," he stood, pausing. "When you feel better, I hope you can find the time to stop by. I'd certainly appreciate the company."

"I'll try," Harry forced a smile. "Good _bye,_ Riddle."

Dark eyes glinted with amusement. "Tom."

"Goodbye, Tom. Would you flip the _closed_ sign for me?" Being his own employer was quite fantastic, as he could close up shop any damn day of the week. 

Tom gave a blank-faced salute, the corners of his mouth twitching ever so slightly. This affection that swelled inside Harry - it wasn't good. As soon as the door shut behind Tom, Harry lowered his head back to the table, heaving a resigned sigh.

* * *

 ** _To be continued . . ._**


	3. The Best Medicine

_**False Prophets**_

 **TanninTele**

* * *

 _Disclaimer: All rights belong to J.K. Rowling, voiding that of original content and characters._

* * *

NEIL: _"So, does everyone come back as a ghost?"_

NORMAN: _"No. My grandma told me it's usually people that still have stuff to figure out,_

 _or sometimes it's the ones who died suddenly or in a bad way."_

 _\- Paranorman,_ Focus Features

* * *

 **III:**

Monday morning, a tall, gangly figure was found leaning against the door frame of _The Veil of Death_. The man was freckle-faced and attractive, but his shoulders were hunched in an attempt to make himself smaller. This was largely ineffective; compared to Harry, he was a giant. "George?" Harry gandered.

Startled brown eyes met his. George stood straight and brushed his hair back, smiling nervously. It didn't quite reach his eyes. "Er, yeah," he stumbled over his own words. "I'm a bit early, but I was hoping to get this over with."

"Understandable," Harry opened the door further. "Hadrian Prince. You can call me Harry." George hesitated before grasping Harry's hand. His grip was warm and calloused, pleasant against Harry's cool skin.

Harry ushered George into the shop, both jumping as Severus' painting fell to the floor with a clatter. _"Whoops."_ Fred's body glowed gold in the presence of his twin. His expression resembled a deer in the headlights.

George stared at the empty air. "Odd," he murmured. He stooped down to grab the picture, turning it over. His freckled nose crinkled. "Um, very . . . interesting fellow."

 _"Greasy and uppity, more like."_ Fred chimed, looking over his brother's shoulder. Severus was sneering up at them. _"Who killed_ his _puppy?"_

"You're too polite," Harry said wryly. He pulled the frame from George's hands. " _Nothing_ like your brother."

George cracked a grin. "Well, I've had a few years without his horrid influence. I reckon that might have something to do with it." The ghost laughed, the sound warm and echoing. George sank into the chair across from Harry, a wistful smile on his face. As annoying Fred was, Harry couldn't deny the spirit had a calming effect on his brother.

Harry steepled his fingers. "So, your _other_ brother, Ronald, I believe - "

 _"Ickle Ronniekins."_

Harry barely faltered. "- tells me you're having trouble . . . adjusting."

"Yeah. Ron. You know, he really liked you, he thought you were 'bloody wicked'," George grinned shakily, trying to avert the topic. "I don't know what you did, but when we spoke, Hermione barely even _mentioned_ 'exploitations' and 'scams'. I think you had her shook."

"I just spoke the truth. George, how long has it been since Fred - "

"Two and a half years," George sighed, picking at a stray thread. He seemed to realize Harry wasn't so easily distracted. "The anniversary of his death is coming up soon. I've been told that I've had more than enough time to to 'get over it', but I . . . I can't . . . " George visibly struggled.

 _A camera flash went off, and the Weasley family let out a relieved sigh. It took quite the effort to get two parents and seven children to all smile at the same time. 'You can't do that, Fred,'_ _Percy's nasally, obnoxious voice carried over the crowd. He smacked at Fred's thumbs up gesture, looking around anxiously. 'It's like the 'V' sign back home, or the middle finger in America. H_ _ighly disrespectful.'_

 _Fred peeked through his headscarf, sticking out his tongue._

 _'Where'd you hear that, Perce?' Ginny asked curiously, too young to realize most of what Percy said was utter bullshite._

 _'I read it in a brochure,' he said haughtily, as though it was an accomplishment._

 _Ignoring him, Fred's brown eyes roamed over the Great Pyramids. The burning pressure of the sun both tired him and excited him. England rarely got this warm, and the exotic beauty of the Egyptian culture was something entirely foreign to him. Fred was jealous of his older brother; Bill_ lived _here for six months out of twelve, but the poor bloke was stuck in a stuffy bank. Fred wanted to explore . . . and where better than the Pyramids of Giza, one of the seven wonders of the world?_

"You're not abnormal, George," Harry reassured. "You knew Fred your entire life, it's mad to think only a few short years is enough to dampen the pain. But sometimes, there's a point where that grief takes over your entire life. It's not healthy."

George went almost as red as his hair, looking as though he caught aflame. The blush licked up his cheeks, brown eyes blazing like embers. "You don't _know_ me!" he burst. "How can you just - just _assume - ?"_

"You've stopped living, George," Harry repeated after Fred. "You never leave your apartment, rarely visiting family or friends."

"Fred _was_ my family," the man pressed, eyes brimming. "He was everything."

 _Fred elbowed his twin lightly, pointing towards a girl in a long purple dress. 'I see her ankles._ Scandalous.' _He smirked. '_ _Let's get out of here. I'm tired of listening to Percy's history lessons.'_

 _George pulled out a map, jabbing a finger at cave complex beneath the pyramids. 'I wanna tour the Valley of the Kings.'_

 _He grinned. 'Shall we steal a femur bone for Lee?'_

"I can understand that. You were more than just brothers, you were _twins._ He was a piece of you, an extension of your body; practically one mind sharing two bodies. Fred will always be trapped in your memories as that lively teenager, while you're forced to go on - growing and maturing, experiencing things he never will. But just because _he_ isn't able to experience life, doesn't mean you can't."

 _It was easy for them to slip away from their parents. Ron was having a crisis, certain a scorpion had slipped into his tunic. The boy was making a scene, screeching and stomping around, drawing the suspicious gazes of two security guards. Ducking behind a massive stone barrier, the twins made a mad break for the pyramids, completely ignoring the_ 'No Entry' _signs. To be fair, it wasn't_ _written in legible English._

 _By the time they slipped into the tombs, tromping down a set of stone stairs, Fred and George were sweating heavily from the humidity. Fred removed his head shawl, panting, and rolled up his sleeves._

 _The tomb was dark, the walls scratched and worn, holding a sort of ancient beauty. Gold treasures glimmered in the low light, the air smelling of rust and dirt. Fred's fingers itched toward the artifacts._

 _'Fred, hey - just . . . don't touch any_ _thing. This stuff could be sacred or some bullshite - ' George tripped, something sharp crunching beneath his foot. It was a pile of rubble, left over from the walls. George brushed his fingers over the sandstone, frowning. There were many faded hieroglyphics here, of wide-open eyes and black birds. It didn't bode very well._

 _He looked up suddenly._

 _'We're being watched,' he murmured, nodding toward the face of a jackal-headed god painted into the sandstone._ _Anubis glared at them through his one black eye._

 _'Oh, bugger off, brother, I'm sure no one will notice if I just - ' Fred's fingers closed around the head of an obsidian feline, the goddess Bast._ _Just like he'd assumed, absolutely nothing happened._ _'Haunted tombs, my arse,'_ _he murmured, turning the statue around in his hands. He put it back into it's little alcove and ducked deeper into the tomb, prodding at everything he saw._ _His eyes lit upon a wooden case rimmed with gold. Something red was glinting at the bottom; a metallic statue wearing a tall, almost comical hat. He touched the object, swiftly recoiling._

 _Rust stained Fred's fingers like blood. He brought it to his nose, nostrils flaring as he sniffed his fingertips._

"It feels like a part of you is missing, doesn't it?" Harry leaned forward in his chair. "Even though he's gone, you keep picking at that wound. You're not letting yourself _heal_."

Harry picked at his collar, feeling a sudden, sweaty, stifling heat surge.

 _A cough tightening in his chest, he recoiled immediately, dizziness swarming over him. Suddenly, the heat was unbearable; it was as though his lungs were shrivelling._ _George glanced up just as Fred fell to his knees, breathing harshly._ _'Fred?' he asked. 'Fred!'_ _His twin tipped forward, pressing his forehead into the floor, wheezing. His skin seemed to glow with a red rash, his eyes watering painfully._

 _His shoulder knocked into the wooden case, tipping it over; a black and red, gleaming effigy of Osiris winking up at him. Horror flooded through George; Osiris was the Egyptian god of death._

 _And he was claiming another soul tonight._

Perhaps it was heat stroke, Harry considered, that had killed Fred. Either that or a haunted statue. _"For god's sake, Georgey, stop moping about and get a job!"_ Fred ranted. The spirit was tromping around, working himself in a frenzy. The floor rattled, the air tense and practically burning.

 _"Go_ _out with the family and eat more than just take-out. Start dating, start inventing again - "_

" - and channel your grief into something that makes you happy." Harry finished.

George blinked at him. "You . . . you sound just like him. Passionate to a fault," The man looked distinctly guilty, likely remembering the family he'd neglected. "So . . . for Fred to 'pass on' into the great joke shop in the sky, I've got to move on?"

 _"I just want you to be happy, Georgey."_

Harry tentatively reached for George's hand. "And living your life? That'd be a great start."

George stared down at their hands, trembling ever so slightly, his jaw clenched. It left a charming dent in his cheek. His mind seemed to whir as ge thought quickly. "Would you - " he faltered, before setting his shoulders. "I need to go home and . . . _think_ for a when I'm done, do you - _would_ you - like to go to the bar with me sometime?"

Harry blinked in surprise. "I don't think . . . " Harry tried pulling away.

The man looked up at him with large, pleading eyes. "Please? No strings attached. You're just . . . I feel like I can talk to you. And 'going out', yeah? That's what Fred would want," he was gaining confidence with every word.

Harry hesitated, looking up at the spirit for confirmation.

". . . it'll have to be on a weekday," he said finally. "I'm a bit swamped with work. But, um," he ran a hand through his hair. "Call me when you figure things out?"

The redhead beamed.

Fred winked at him, waving a single, red-stained hand. With that, he disappeared almost as swiftly as he had arrived. George stiffened, feeling a tingle go down his back.

"He's gone, isn't he?" the man whispered.

Harry spoke softly. "He'll always be watching over you; but it's time for you to start your own life."

* * *

It was late in the afternoon and Harry was completing his ledgers. He was entirely forgoing dinner in favor of paying the rent. Chewing on the end of his pencil, he abruptly erased a few numbers, grimacing as the pink eraser smeared his own spit across the paper. He really ought to be more careful with these things.

The store front was locked and illuminated with a single lamp. The quiet was calming, but this moment of peace didn't last long. Harry jolted as a pounding came at his door. The frantic knocking relayed panic and urgency. Pencil falling from his hands, a searing, blistering pain flooded through him. He stumbled toward the door, unlatching it and coming face-to-face with Olympe. Snot and tears dripped down her face, her makeup tarnished.

"Olympe!" Harry exclaimed, ushering her in. "What's wrong?"

"What's _wrong?!"_ the woman wailed, collapsing to her knees. Against his will, Harry went down with her, unsure of what else to do or say. "My husband, _mon amour,_ " she was incoherent, descending into mumbled French. Harry dragged her to his desk chair and handed her a tissue. Olympe blew her nose, the sound resembling an air horn, and she flushed brightly. "Nymphadora and I . . . we were cleaning up after the dinner rush," she whimpered. "I put the radio on to play some music. You know how Rubeus and I love jazz, at our wedding we - "

" _Olympe."_

"As I was switching through ze stations, there was a breaking news announcement - a wild-fire is spreading through Gloucestershire."

"You don't mean the Forest of Dean?" Horror dawned on him. "Isn't that where Hagrid was camping?"

"Oui, oui. My sweet Rubeus!"

"Have you heard anything yet?"

"I have not heard anything, no, not from Rubeus, Grawp or ze hospital. You've got to tell me - " Olympe grabbed Harry's face, sharp nails digging into his cheeks. "My husband. Is he alive?"

Harry floundered for an answer. That flickering, smoldering wisp of pain, the pounding in his head - it was Rubeus. He wasn't quite dead, but not quite alive, either. He was _fighting_ for his life, and Olympe his anchor. Harry had never bore witness to something like this. It was painful and rattling, but beautiful in a way. something told him Hagrid would win. He must be winning, for as Harry stared into Olympe's eyes, Rubeus' presence grew fainter.

Harry leaned his forehead onto Olympe's. "He's alive." He whimpered as Olympe pulled him into a bone-crushing hug. "He's alive."

* * *

Luna's lover, luck of all luck, was a nurse at Saint Mungo's hospital. Luna invited him to a few meetings at _Pandora's,_ but Neville was content to be a wallflower, barely associating with the other members.

Neville Longbottom was a timid man, his uniform a bright, virginal white. His dark hair was plastered to his forehead with nervous sweat, creating an endearing, childish contrast. He bustled them through the halls of Saint Mungo's, stopping at an unlabelled door.

Harry's head ached with the smell of bleach and the odor of death. Green eyes shut for a moment as Harry closed off his mind to the spirits fluttering in and out of his periphery. Today was for Hagrid - even if Neville's ghostly mother was making rasping, choked noises, vying for his attention.

"In here, Missus Hagrid," Neville mumbled, clenching his clipboard tightly. "Rubeus . . . he's been waiting for you."

The woman took in a shuddering breath and pushed open the doors. _"Mon bébé,"_ Olympe whimpered, rushing over to Hagrid's bedside. His head was wrapped in a white, gauzy bandage, and what little skin visible was swollen and oily with lotion. His dark hair was lank and missing in clumps. "Rubeus, sweetheart," Olympe tentatively touched her husband's hand. Hagrid jerked, his eyes flying open. They were naught but a spark of bright brown amidst a sea of white thread.

His lips pried open, the skin chapped and tender. "Olympe," Hagrid squeezed his wife's fingers.

"It's alright, darling, you're safe now."

"Is Greppur . . . ?"

Olympe smiled wetly. "He is alive. Nurse Longbottom said Grawp will pull through."

"He saved me," the man said softly. "When he smelt the smoke, he woke me up and - and - led me through the woods," he choked. "My lil' brother, protectin' me. It was so warm, and the sky was orange. It hurt my eyes to look at it. We tried to find the highway, but a tree was blocking the path. I swallowed so much ash - my hair caught fire, and Greppur tried to put it out, but his coat - "

Olympe kissed Hagrid's hands, tears falling freely as her husband described the horrors of the night before. _"Tout va bien."_

Rubeus closed his eyes, nodding along as Olympe whispered endearments. Harry stepped away, feeling as though he was intruding on something private. A wistful, bittersweet envy reared it's ugly head. He never knew his own family. It felt wrong to bare witness to another family's love.

Stepping back into the hallway, Harry bumped into Nurse Longbottom, who flushed darkly. He was pushing a rattling cart, empty pudding cups kept in a plastic garbage bag. "Sorry," he murmured. "Are you . . . Harry Prince?"

Harry blinked in surprise. "Yes, how - ? Oh, Luna," he shook his head, pink lips quirked in a fond smile. "Thank you, by the way."

"For what?" the boy was genuinely curious.

"For letting me see Hagrid. I know visiting hours is only for family."

Neville flushed. "It wasn't a bother."

"You won't get in trouble?" Harry asked. Neville shook his head. "Well, thanks anyway. Olympe kind of forced me to come along. She was delirious with worry."

"I'm sure," the boy murmured, lowering his eyes. "Love can be quite the force to reckon with."

From Harry's peripheral, he saw Neville's mother once more. They looked strikingly alike, with short, dark hair and soft features. Her skin was tinged pink, a cheerful color despite her sombre expression. She wasn't saying much, and Harry soon realized why - there was a piece of chewing gum lodged in her throat. A sweet, cloying taste filled his mouth, his saliva pooling thickly. His throat felt tight. _What a stupid way to die,_ he thought, but wisely kept that to himself.

"I'm sorry about your mum," he said instead. "What was her name?"

"Oh - Oh, gosh. Luna said you were a psychic. She sure makes the oddest friends," he gave a choked laugh. "My mum's name is - _was -_ Alice."

Alice lowered a hand onto her son's head, fingers carding through the dark hair. Harry smiled lightly. "She wants me to tell you that she loves you," he watched Alice's lips carefully as she mouthed the words. "She says 'take care of your grandmother, and introduce Augusta to Luna already,'" Harry cracked a smile. "Give Luna that ring you keep in your bedside drawer."

He looked shocked. "It's mum's ring, I don't think - "

"She thinks it's time," Harry pressed gently. "Alice is very proud of the man you've become, and is only sad that she left you so suddenly."

Neville's eyes watered. "It's alright," he croaked. "I've come to terms with it. She's with pa, now." Alice grinned proudly at her son's maturity and raised her eyes to the sky. Opening her mouth, the pink light burst free, surrounding her as she passed on.

"She is."

Neville wiped his cheeks and straightened his back, a new confidence soaring through him. "Thank you, Harry," he said genuinely. "I really needed that." Neville looked down, as though remembering his cargo. "I really ought to be going - bedpans to clean and all that." He paused. "I think I'll ask Luna tonight."

"She'll say yes," Harry said with assurance.

"Can you see the future?"

Harry laughed. "No. But I know Luna. She'll say yes."

"I hope so." With a small laugh, the nurse took off, walking with a straighter spine and a skip to his step. Harry tucked his hands into his pockets, the taste and smell of bubblegum lingering on his tongue.

At least it was better than bleach.

* * *

Internally, he felt a bit bad about enjoying himself while Olympe and Hagrid were still recovering from the wildfire, but externally, Harry was laughing harder than he ever had before.

Harry couldn't exactly pinpoint the moment it all became overwhelming. Death and loss had always plagued him, but eventually something had to bend. The last thing Harry remembered before becoming as drunk as - well - Severus, was wondering what the hell George Weasley was thinking, wearing so much damn cologne. He smelt like he bathed himself in liquefied testosterone and damn if Harry wasn't turned on.

Harry bowed his head over a short glass of whiskey, his hysterical laughter descending into muffled hiccups.

As George rubbed his face, Harry's gaze was drawn to the spattering of freckles that only seemed to enforce George's natural, rogish beauty. Harry was suddenly enraptured by the husky scent of George's shampoo. Perhaps he was a bit drunk, Harry realized, as he nearly fell from his seat. He caught himself, blushing furiously.

"Are you sure you don't want anything less potent? It seems you're already a bit . . . tipsy," George said, eyes glimmering with mirth.

Harry startled them both with a loud laugh, quickly smothering it with a cough. "Don't be an arsewipe."

"Language," George rebuked lightly.

"I believe that's English, although I may be mistaken."

The man scoffed. "Like I haven't heard _that_ before. My brother was a master jokester," George trailed off, bitterness replacing his mirth.

Harry made a sympathetic noise. "You're not so bad yourself. But watch yourself, George. Drunk _and_ depressed is a dangerous mixture."

George swallowed a bit of whiskey, the alcohol burning bitter in the back of his throat.

"You're probably right," he admitted. He sighed. "God, it's nice to get out. I can't believe I ever stopped. To be truthful," George pushed on, "I probably wasn't the best son or brother in these past few years. My mum was nearly as torn as I was, but I ignored her for my own self-pity. And poor Ron and Ginny - I was supposed to be their big brother, but they ended up taking care of me, instead. Ron never stopped looking for some way to bring me closure - Hermione helped, of course, dropping off hoards of self-help books. Ginny made sure I didn't starve, her cooking skills almost rivalling mum's - " as George chattered, Harry sat back.

He was pleasantly buzzed, but this sudden topic put a damper in his night. Harry sighed to himself. He couldn't help but replace George's features with darker hair and deeper eyes; George was handsome enough, however, so when the man smiled coyly at him several minutes later, Harry smiled back.

George brushed away a piece of Harry's dark, midnight-black hair. "Spend the night with me?" He asked coyly.

Harry allowed himself to be led away, stumbling into George's lean figure and leeching off his warmth.

* * *

When Harry woke the next morning, he felt as Zeus likely had when Hephaestus broke open his skull to reveal a full-grown goddess.

Keeping his eyes shut helped to keep out the worst of the headache, and so Harry feigned sleep for a while. He was only vaguely aware of the warm body beside him, an arm draped over his waist. The bed was soft as clouds, the woolen fabric stimulating his skin. As he lay there, Harry silently attempted to interpret his blurred memories of the night before.

Slowly, as the odor of sex and cologne filled his nostrils, his eyes popped open in utter horror. Sunlight filled his vision, streaming through the large, open window. He couldn't stop the long, soft groan that slipped dragged his lips as dots blurred before his eyes and a sense of nausea crept up on him. Holding back bile, he pushed off George's arm and rolled out of the bed, landing on shaky limbs. Stumbling across the soft carpet, Harry blessedly found the ensuite bathroom and stooped over the pristine porcelain toilet.

Well, it wasn't pristine for long.

Emptying the last of his stomach, Harry leaned his forehead against the cool rim, mouth sour. His hair was plastered with sweat, his naked torso quivering with shaky breaths. The nausea passed, and Harry tentatively raised his head, hoping that it had all been a nasty - although, at some points, admittedly pleasant - dream.

Feeling numb, Harry grabbed onto the sink and scrubbed the awful taste from his mouth, grimacing at his reflection. He looked like shite and felt like it too, but Harry was a firm believer in retribution. "I am an awful human being," Harry muttered to himself, lifting a hand to poke at the purple hickeys on his neck. Ignoring the stinging pain in his lower regions, Harry hobbled his way back into the bedroom, glancing at George. The man looked very peaceful while asleep, Harry couldn't help but note. Harry briefly daydreamed of waking up in those warm arms every morning.

It settled like a heavy lead in his stomach.

Forcing aside those selfish thoughts, Harry collected his clothes and slipped on his wrinkled clothing. The clothes felt overly snug, and Harry was reminded of Parvati Patil and her sultry ways. Shoulders hunched, Harry took a deep breath and opened the bedroom door with sweaty palms.

He shut the door softly behind him, shame burning hot and painful. Entering George's kitchen, he went straight for the dial-up phone, fingers trembling as he punched in the number for _Honeyduke's._ Even on a weekend, Albus was bound to be up this early.

 _"Honeyduke's Sweets,_ _how can I make your day a sweet one?"_ Albus' cheerful, grandfatherly voice rang through the phone.

"Albus," Harry choked out quietly. "It's Harry. Can you . . . can you pick me up?"

* * *

Feeling shitty enough as it was, Harry left George a note on his kitchen counter, thanking him for the drinks and apologizing for his sudden deserved better, and Harry simply wasn't enough. He booked it out of there like he had hellhounds on his tail .

George's apartment was in the middle of the busy city. Sitting down on the curb, Harry winced. Ten minutes later, he looked up as Dumbledore's Volkswagen pulled up next to the sidewalk. Albus' white head peered through the window, a frown etched into his wrinkled face. Needless to say, Dumbledore wasn't impressed. His blue gaze fixated on the red love-bites that Harry trained in vain to cover.

"What have you done, my boy?" His voice dripped with disappointment. Harry stood and went around to the other side. His fingers curled around the door handle. He pulled on it, the lock clicking.

It felt like Albus was punishing him.

"Please, Albus." A cool morning breeze caused goosebumps to creep over his bared skin. "I just want to go home."

The man pursed his lips, fingers tapping against the steering wheel. "Was it for _love_ , Harry, that you spent the night here? Or was it a decision made in the midst of a drunken spree, in an effort to numb yourself to reality?"

Harry flinched. Albus stared at him expectantly.

"No," Harry said. "It wasn't for love. I don't know what I was thinking."

"That's because you _weren't,"_ Albus snapped, revealing a hostility Harry had never before witnessed in the eccentric old man. He unlocked the doors. "Get in."

Harry slid in gratefully and buckled up, looking out the window to hide his burning eyes.

Their ride was quiet, the tension palpable in the air. Harry drowned out his surroundings, pressing his forehead into the glass pane. An uncomfortable car ride later, they turned into Knockturn. They passed _Honeydukes_ where one of Albus' employees was manning the counter. Albus pulled up next to _The Veil of Death,_ parking the car. A skeletal, withered hand reached over to clench his knee. The pressure was almost like a clamp, tightening with every second. Sweat dripped nervously down Harry's neck. "You're a good boy, Harry," Albus spoke, the anger drained from him. "I thought you were better than this. After Severus died, I hoped you would _learn_ \- "

"Thank you for the ride, Albus," Harry interrupted tiredly.

"Promise me," the man said. His eyes crackled like ozone. "That you won't partake in any more of these reckless, _careless_ trysts with strangers."

"He wasn't a stranger," Harry said defensively.

"Even worse! A _friend,_ who you left the next morning - some _friend_ you make."

Harry's head snapped around. "God _forbid_ I make one mistake, Albus. I don't need your fucking _lecture!"_ He rushed out of the car, slamming the door behind him with a metallic _clang._

Blue eyes watched him, Dumbledore's expression tight and unreadable. Green antifreeze, still leaking, stuck to the bottom of Harry's shoe like blood.

Wiping his face furiously, Harry, unlocked his door and pulled shut all the blinds. He climbed up the steps, staggering every so often, the dizzy spells making his head ache. He stomped over to the stove, nursing his hangover with a strong pot of tea. Setting the stove and boiling water in a kettle, Harry watched it tiredly until the kettle whistled.

Speaking of food, The _Hut_ was closed for the week, as Hagrid was still recovering under the watchful eye of his wife. Setting his cup onto the coffee table, Harry collapsed onto his small, worn couch, a pillow cushioning his fall. With a push of a button, music began to play from his old radio, turned down to a low hum so not to aggravate his migraine.

With the taste of herbal tea and the warmth of the wool blanket over him, Harry fell into a deep sleep.

* * *

 _A_ _sliver of moonlight streamed in through a chink in the door vent. The rays reflected off the shattered remains of Harry's glasses, casting an array of brightly-colored and strangely-shaped beams dancing across the wall above Harry's head._

 _Harry pulled himself up with a wince, biting his bottom lip to keep from crying out. Shifting on the small cot, the bandages on his upper back crinkled, disturbing day-old wounds. Breath coming sharp, Harry leaned forward, grappling blindly for the shelf opposite his cot. The pads of his fingers brushed against broken glass and bent wire. Harry swore foully._

 _'I forgot,' Harry breathed, horrified as he collected the broken bits of glass, cradling them gently in his hands. He held a sharp piece up to the moonlight, the sharpened edge grazing his thumb. This small pain distracted Harry from worse ones._

 _'Aunt Petunia is going to have a fit,' he whispered, visualizing her pursed lips and blazing eyes, wrinkled skin tanned from her six-day vacation to Guernsey Bay._ _Dudley, meanwhile, was in France with Piers Polkiss, devouring gourmet chocolates and spreading their reign of terror internationally._

 _It wasn't much of a reprieve._

 _Unconsciously pushing his thumb deeper into the glass, the skin broke. Blood bubbled from the cut, a dull crimson against pale, bruised, broken skin. Depositing the glass onto his lap, Harry suckled lightly on his wound, a metallic taste invading his dry mouth._

 _The pain reminded him of that past week, when Harry was worked to the bone sweeping, polishing, weeding, cooking, dusting - following the long list of chores Petunia had left him._ _While Harry followed Petunia's regime, Vernon spent the first few days criticizing Harry's work and shouting at the telly. On Sunday, he sent his nephew out to clean the attic while he 'entertained' the widowed blonde schoolteacher across the street._

 _An hour later, hungry and tired, Harry stumbled into the kitchen, only to find the schoolteacher screaming as she was pressed against the refrigerator, Vernon's hand up her skirt. Seeing the woman's distress, Harry's vision went blind with fury, and did the first thing that came to mind; he threw a wine bottle at Vernon's back, liquid flying and glass shattering._

 _Vernon had jerked away from the woman, face burning red, and breath heady with alcohol. The man turned around and tackled his nephew, screaming obscenities. The woman took her chance and fled, blue eyes wide and fearful._ _Harry was thrown face-first against a wall, his glasses breaking with a smash across his face._

 _A nasty slash was made above his brow on impact, adding to the lightning-bolt scar already on his forehead._ _Now, Harry can tolerate being tossed against a hard surface, roughly dragged by the scruff of his neck, slapped across the face and beaten with a salad spoon, but when Vernon called him a '- bloody, snooping, nasty little trollop!'_

 _. . . Harry just snapped._

 _'If I'm a trollop, Vernon, what does that make you?' the boy hissed, blood dribbling from his lips. Harry dodged a thrown fist. 'A bloody drunk? Or a cheat, desperate enough to rape a woman half his age? Because that's what she'll be telling the police,' Harry nodded towards the window, where the woman was fleeing down the road._

 _Vernon turned a disturbing shade of puce, a vein popping out on his forehead. 'That bitch wouldn't dare tell,' Vernon spat, fumbling for his belt. 'But if you say one word to Petunia -'_

 _Harry laughed in his face, a deranged sound born from years of resentment. 'I doubt she'll care. She's fucking your boss, didn't you realize?' The late wife of Vernon's boss was prone to following Petunia home, screaming at her and tossing plates around the house. Of course, this was always blamed on Harry._

 _Hours later, Harry chuckled wetly to himself, closing his eyes in pain as his bruises brushed against the soiled mattress. His pillow did nothing to sooth the tired ache in his neck and shoulders. Harry brushed a finger against his face, feeling, not for his most recent abrasions, but for the old scar that stood brightly his forehead._

 _It was in the shape of a lightning-bolt, a rather cool-looking scar that remained proof of the car accident that killed his parents._

 _That got him thinking - would his mum and dad find him strange? Would they think him a burden, a thief, a trollop, a freak like the Dursleys did?_ Probably.

 _Harry could see the dead sometimes, but he never saw the two people that mattered the most._

* * *

With no small amount of guilt, Harry purposefully missed the bi-monthly meeting at _Pandora's._ Although Albus stopped briefly in front of his shop, honking, the van eventually pulled away. Harry just wasn't ready to face Albus again.

On Sunday, he accepted a job at a house in the suburbs. A little girl had drowned in a backyard pool over a decade ago, unaware that her family had long ago moved away. Poor Gabrielle, Harry mourned.

By the time Harry made it home, Tom was closing _Borgin & Burkes' _for the evening.

Harry had been absent quite often lately and Tom was curious enough to deviate from his strict schedule. Spotting Harry stepping out of a cab after an incredibly draining housecall _,_ Tom hesitated in flipping the _closed_ sign. Moving over to the window, he adjusted a metal effigy of a Parisian guillotine so that the setting sun reflected off the blade's surface. The object wasn't lethal, and meant to be sold to collectors - the most it could give you was a paper cut. Harry nearly tripped over the curb as the light blinded him, lifting a hand to cover his radiant green eyes.

Harry scowled at a grinning Tom.

The man beckoned Harry to him before disappearing into the shop.

The green-eyed boy sighed, tugging on his hoodie sweater. The shop was known to be unbearingly cold, an unfortunate side effect of playing host to the undead. Harry stepped into the shop. A sweet, vanilla scent masked the smell of dust, though it wasn't overpowering. "Tom?"

His eyes lingered on Helena's crown. For now, the spirit was content in her silver and amethyst prison, her presence sleepy and easy to ignore.

"In back. I've got something to show you."

The floorboards creaking, Harry tentatively entered the backroom. Tom was hunched over a table, empty boxes and polishing supplies strewn about him. The man was using a whetstone - a dark grey block of stone - to sharpen a long blade. Harry's breath caught. A gorgeous hilt born of gold, rubies and diamonds glimmered in the low light. "Wow."

Harry noticed runic letters pressed into the blade.

"It's old Gaelic," Tom murmured into his ear, the hot breath sending a shiver down Harry's spine. "The sword was recovered from a Wicklow armory. You can touch it, if you'd like."

With quaking fingers, Harry brushed against the sharp edge. Flashes of memory - deaths in battles, a screaming man raising a severed head victoriously into the air - flickered past like flames of firelight. He pulled his hand away quickly, as though burned. Tom stared at him, worried. "Is this one haunted, too?"

Harry gave him a weak smile. "No. It's victims have all passed on. It's a good buy, Tom," he said half-heartedly.

"I'd hope so. I paid a fortune for it. The sword ought to be in a museum, but us antiquers are quite possessive of our treasures," Tom gave Harry a small smile.

"It's beautiful."

Dark blue eyes lingered on Harry's face, trailing the faint pink blush. "It is," he murmured. He slid the sword into a leather sheath. "They call it the Sword of Light," he began, voice low and serious. "Or more commonly, the Sword of Moor. A man named Godric Gryffin of Moor was the only known medieval Gaelic to wield a sword made of pure gold."

" _Pure_ gold?"

"Verily. He deserved it, too. Godric was fabled to have hair the color of the burning sun, and his battle roar could inspire even the _dead_ to crawl from their graves and rejoin the fight."

Harry tipped his head. "Gryffin of Moor. That sounds familiar," he glanced around the office. "Do you still have any of Borgin's old notes? He had a binder - "

With a cloud of dust, Tom brought down a large book, having removed it from a nearby drawer. He smiled apologetically. "Of course I do; they're really quite extensive. Though my uncle wasn't the most eloquent of creatures, he was passionate about his research."

Nimble fingers flicked through the pages. Harry dragged his nail against a page labelled _Ravenclaw._ "It's my turn to lecture you," Harry glanced up with a smile. "This here is about Helena's diadem."

"Tell me."

"Well, after Helena died, the diadem was supposedly lost to history - that is, until a man named Quirrell discovered it during his travels, stashed in a hollowed-out tree. Borgin bought the crown from him, and that's when this all started," Harry waved his hand vaguely. "As for the Ravenclaw line, it's long been thought extant. From our research we learned that Helena's sister was sent to live with relatives in Ireland. When she married a decade later, she took the name of - "

" _Gryffindor_ ," Tom read, reading over Harry's shoulder. "That _would_ be the modern equivalent of the name."

"They probably aren't directly related to the Gaelic warrior," Harry conceded. "Seeing as Gryffindor was from the 15th century, but still - "

Tom met his eyes, smiling. "It's a start. I'll look into it."

Harry was quiet for a moment.

"Speaking of family," Harry began softly, closing the binder. "How are you feeling about Borgin?"

"Borgin? Well. We weren't very close. He's my grandmother's brother. I never knew my grandparents, but sometimes, Borgin would visit my mother and I when I was younger." Tom leaned against the wall. "Mum raised me by herself in Greater Hangleton. She cooked for a nearby noble family, and some days, she would sneak me in. I would hide in their library, reading everything I could get my hands on. Books on manners, on business, on history and all brands of fiction," he stared off at some distant shelf. "Borgin would check in on us every so often. He would slip me an envelope of cash to buy groceries, since he knew my mother was too prideful to accept help. When I turned sixteen, Borgin gave me an old family heirloom. My mother had attempted to sell it to him years prior - Borgin paid her handsomely, but kept it safe until I was of age," Pushing off the wall, Tom moved over to a velvet box, showing it to Harry.

Inside was a locket, made of dull gold. The letter _'S'_ slithered over the locket's face, resembling a snake with a glinting emerald eye.

"It was my first antique," Tom fixed the chain, his gaze possessive. "And now, seven years later, here I am."

"Here you are," Harry repeated. "Tom? What . . . what happened to your mum?" Tom's head jolted up and he nearly pinched his fingers as he shut the velvet lid. "You're living here alone, Tom, and I haven't seen you leave for even a single weekend to visit anyone. You also keep referring to her in the past tense."

The man narrowed his eyes, before sighing resignedly. "She fell ill a few winters ago. Cancer in the lungs - her father like to smoke and she picked up the habit."

"I lost someone last winter, too," Harry muttered. Tom arched his brow questioningly. "My . . . my employer, Severus," Harry clenched the hem of his shirt tightly. "He was a heavy drinker, and one morning, Severus . . . started to throw up blood. His liver was failing. I should've seen the symptoms earlier - he was a bloody apothecarian, and I _poured_ over his medical notes on my off days. He got confused easily, and his skin had always seemed jaundiced," Harry began to have trouble breathing. "By the time I called the doctor, Severus was close to dead. I _begged_ him to stay - to come back as a ghost and haunt me, just so I wouldn't be alone again."

Tom allowed Harry to collapse onto him. Harry hid his face in Tom's collarbone, his lungs inflating and deflating rapidly as he fought tears. Tom ran a tentative hand down the back of Harry's head, the black curls threading through his fingers. "You're not alone now."

Harry lifted his waif-like eyes, staring at the antiquarian. Heated palm cradling Harry's nape, Tom's thumb brushed against a yellowing mark, a _love-bite -_ and something tightened in his chest. Biting down his jealousy, Tom held the boy close.

Harry's breathing calmed, and tension thrummed in the air like a string held taut. He leaned forward ever-so slightly, finding solace in Tom's strong arms and warm figure. Tom's embrace was nothing like George's. Tom was anything but teasing, his strength steadfast and sure.

The psychic allowed himself to be soothed, a wisp of air leaving his bitten and red lips. Though he'd given closure for hundreds of clients, he'd never found closure for _himself._ A smile tugging at his lips, Harry settled his head back onto Tom's chest, and allowed himself to fall.

* * *

 ** _To be continued . . ._ **


	4. Ulterior Motives

_**False Prophets**_

 **TanninTele**

* * *

 _Disclaimer: All rights belong to J.K. Rowling, voiding that of original content and characters._

* * *

NEIL: _"So, does everyone come back as a ghost?"_

NORMAN: _"No. My grandma told me it's usually people that still have stuff to figure out,_

 _or sometimes it's the ones who died suddenly or in a bad way."_

 _\- Paranorman,_ Focus Features

* * *

 **IV:**

Hagrid was soon released from the hospital, along with his brother, who had been extensively burnt. Hagrid's house was much like Hagrid, himself; round and warm. It was a little cottage on the edge of London, with faded white Victorian trim surrounding the poorly shackled roof. Harry pulled up the home in a taxi. He was too poor to own a car and, even if he did own one, he barely knew the basics of driving. It was unfortunate, but Harry had been occupied with other things at age sixteen.

Harry ascended the cobblestone pathway, his shoes kicking aside a number of small pebbles. It was a pleasant day, with only a few white clouds marring the crystal blue sky. He knocked on the door and was greeted with a blast of warmth and the smell of biscuits.

Olympe, dressed in an apron and with her dark hair pulled into a high bun, smiled tiredly at him. "Hello, dear," she ushered him inside. The floors were a glossy restored wood, the furniture old but classy. Harry could see a woman's touch everywhere, lace doilies and little paraphernalia decorating Hagrid's childhood home.

Olympe began pouring a glass of some orange, pulpy drink. She tipped in a pile of finely powdered pain pills. "Pumpkin juice," she smiled. Pulp was stuck to her bottom lip. "An old family recipe. Masks the taste of pain medication."

A timer went off and Olympe rushed toward the oven. She shoved on a floral mitten and pulled out a tray of succulent-smelling, rose-tinted vanilla biscuits. Harry was hard pressed not to snatch one off the plate. She piled a plate of biscuits and placed a bent straw into the glass of pumpkin juice. "Come, let us bring the boys their elevenses."

Picture frames lined the hallway, showing Hagrid and Olympe in front of the Eiffel Tower and the Palace of Versailles. In another, Hagrid was dressed in orange camouflage and holding a dead goose high.

Pressing a finger over her lips, Olympe slipped into one room, dropped off a glass and a plate at Greppur's beside, and returned. They entered the master bedroom. It was painted in a pallid pink, certainly not Hagrid's choice. Rubeus was in bed, his head cushioned by a crochet pillow. Harry bit his lip to keep from gasping. The man was completely bald, now, the bandages off, revealing red, swelling skin all around his scalp. His left ear resembled melted wax.

Hagrid guffawed at the small television set up in the corner of the room. Looking up as they stepped in, his eyes lit first upon the food and then Harry. Hagrid gave a bright smile, delighted at the company. Fingers wrapped around the remote, he muted the television. "'lo, Harry."

"Hey, Hagrid," Harry smiled back.

Olympe settled the tray onto his lap. While he ate, Olympe settled into an armchair just beside the bed. She wore her reading glasses and pretended to flip through a day-old newspaper, keeping an eye on her husband. Hagrid's lungs and throat were still tender from the smoke inhalation, and she was secretly worried that he might choke.

When they ran out of idle chitchat, Harry watched cartoons, all three content with the silence. He jumped when it was broken, a _thump_ rattling walls.

"Oh, Greppur's up. He was napping in the guest room 'cause I keep him up at night with my snores," Hagrid grinned.

They'd never met personally, but Harry had heard enough gossip from Olympe to get an idea of Greppur's character. There was another thump, followed by a muffled swear. Olympe pushed up her glasses, sighing. "Could you check on Greppur, please, dear?"

Harry shrugged and stood, straightening his clothes.

Stepping into the hall, he could hear a man muttering to himself. Harry knocked on the door twice and was called in.

"Sorry 'bout that," the man said hurriedly. He was bent over the floor, picking up shattered glass with the bottom of his shirt. Pumpkin juice was splashed against the wooden slates. "I tried gettin' up an' bumped int'a the rocking horse." The guest room was, indeed, occupied with several dusty children's toys. Harry's heart panged as he remembered Hagrid and Olympe's struggle to have children.

The man stumbled again and Harry surged forward to help the man back into bed.

Laying down, the man's feet stretched far beyond the cot's edge, swaddled in pink bunny slippers. He wore blue-striped pajamas, the fabric straining at his chest, revealing a mottled, scarred torso. The skin was covered with an oily sheen that smelt of aloe vera. His features were rather flat; he had Rubeus' eyes, a large nose and skin like sienna, brown and peeling. All the burnt tissue lay beneath the neck, and - though he felt terrible for thinking it - Harry was glad he couldn't see the extent of the damage.

Harry gave a polite smile. "My name is Harry. I'm a friend of Hagrid's."

Adjusting painfully, Greppur eyed him. A friend of Rubeus' is a friend of mine," his voice was husky, but held a child like cadence that made Harry wonder at his age. "Would you hand me those comics?" He nodded at a pile of books on the bedside table.

"Batman?" Harry wondered aloud.

Greppur broke into a pained smile. "I loved them as a kid."

Harry didn't know much about superheroes, honestly, but Greppur seemed to have found a topic he liked. The man picked at his biscuit, bursting into a one-sided conversation about heroes and villains that reminded Harry of Dennis Creevey and his Superman shirt. " - when I was at Azkaban, I hoarded all the _Mighty Thor_ volumes they had at the library - "

Green eyes widened. "Azkaban?" Harry interrupted, leaning forward. "You were at Azkaban?"

"Well, yeh, for a few years. I, er, was always in some form of trouble or another as a kid, Rubeus can attest to that. But five or so years ago, I lost me temper with a few police officers. I don't like ta' talk about it."

"Did you know - or did you hear of - a man named Sirius Black?"

Greppur's bushy eyebrows shot up. "Course I did. Everyone's heard o' Black, nasty mass murderer he was."

". . . He was my godfather."

Harry never knew the man, but he'd overheard Petunia speaking of him in hushed, frightened tones. A few days after James and Lily's deaths, Sirius had supposedly killed fourteen people in a fit of rage. He was found laughing at the crime scene and the judge declared him clinically insane, driven mad by the death of his friends.

"Er, my condolences," Greppur cleared his throat. "I only saw him once as he was bein' taken into solitary. He liked'ta provoke the other prisoners, always playin' tricks on 'em. But he couldn't hold himself in a fight and got beat up real bad by a few blokes."

Harry felt ill. "What became of him?"

"Why, he hung himself," Greppur said without batting an eyelash. "Ripped a strip off his bedding and threw it around an old pipe. Left a note, too, somethin' about being framed by a _rat,_ of all things - " the man laughed, coughing violently as he did. "Barmy, tha' one."

Harry kept silent, unable to process the news. He already suspected it was too late for his godfather to come swooping in, but - sometimes - ignorance was bliss.

* * *

When Harry returned home that day, he was surprised to see a note taped to his window. It was written in flourishing, emerald-green cursive. It was Tom's handwriting, the curve of his letters unmistakable. Tom was asking him to dinner, and Harry had only a half an hour to get ready.

Peering over his shoulder, he stared at _Borgin's_ archaic storefront and let a smile slip onto his face. Remembering the drunken one-off that resulted from Harry's last date - not to mention Albus' sharp chastisements - Harry was adamant this dinner would be different. He slipped quickly inside his apartment, tearing off his clothes.

Harry washed his hair rapidly and combed it to the best of his ability. A few strands sprang forward regardless, and Harry gave it up as a lost cause.

Tugging on his nicest shirt, a shade of dark green that set off his pale complexion, Harry stared himself down in the mirror. Objectively, he knew he wasn't ugly. Lockhart and George and countless others made their attraction very clear. But Harry couldn't see it. His eyes, while a rare color, were deep-set and smudged with darkness. It made him look as though he hadn't sleep in a year. His hair was too wild, the strands long and curled, hiding his face like a mourning veil. He was short and skeletal, his pale, nearly translucent skin comparable to the undead.

The boy leaned over the sink to rest his forehead against the cool mirror.

It had been a while since Harry last addressed his horrid insecurities. It reminded Harry of when he was fighting the memory of a dead women for Severus' affections. With trembling fingers, Harry pulled open a drawer and pulled out that old tube of lipstick. The chill of the cap stung his fingertips, the lump of lipstick resembled the petal of a peony. He put on a thin layer, brightening his lips and bringing attention to _them_ , rather than his faults.

The mask gave him confidence, and somehow, Harry made it to Tom's door without getting cold feet.

The shop was unlocked and Harry crept through the shelves, unnerved by the silence. "Hello?" he called out, stopping at an antique, gold-framed mirror to flatten his hair.

"Up here!"

Following the voice, Harry crossed into the back stairwell, ducking beneath a rope and sign reading _'Do Not Pass'._ Harry was assaulted with the smell of homemade bread and some sort of soup. Fighting an excited grin, Harry pushed the door open. He almost laughed aloud at the sight.

"You're early," the man said, flustered. The flames flicked over the bubbling pot of chowder. He quickly turned down the heat, swearing. "This _appliance_ is not cooperating," Tom glared at the pots and pans.

With the table set for two, Tom had clearly prepared for a lovely, quiet meal. The silverware was freshly polished, the napkins folded precisely. Tom even had a vase of flowers from Pomona's, although the petals were wilting in the sweltering heat of the apartment.

Tom, himself, was charmingly disheveled. His short, dark hair was frizzing at the tips and the sleeves of his dress shirt were rolled up to his elbows, revealing strong arms. Unfortunately, the view was diminished by a gaudy floral oven mitt.

Harry blanched as dark tendrils of smoke began to drift up from the oven. He quickly rushed over, plucking the mitt from Tom's hand. Slamming open the door, he leaned back as a blast of heat cascaded over him.

"Don't blame the oven," Harry coughed, pulling out a tray of crusty garlic rolls. "It seems you certainly did _not_ inherit your mother's cooking skills."

Tom grimaced, running a hand down his face. "I feel incredibly stupid," he admitted. "It hasn't been five minutes and this is already a disaster." He felt utterly ridiculous standing there as Harry took over, unaccustomed to being - well - _incompetent_ at something.

"Well, perfection isn't always attainable," Harry laughed, tapping the bottom of a loaf. "As for the bread, it's baked all the way through, at least. We'll just tear off the burnt bits and enjoy the rest." Noticing how the chowder boiled, Harry grabbed a wooden spoon and took a taste. A white droplet lingered on his bottom lip, quickly brushed away by a moist tongue. Tom felt his gaze fall straight to Harry's lips, his body heating up with more than just embarrassment.

"A bit of salt, and it's ready."

"Where'd you learn to cook?" Tom watched avidly as Harry expertly ladled himself a bowl.

". . . My aunt taught me."

Tom pulled out a chair for his 'date'. "You look very handsome, by the way. I would've said so earlier, but - "

"I was saving your dinner?" Harry smiled. Tom returned the expression and began bringing out appetizers - a salad, the bread, and a few glasses for wine.

Harry declined a drink, but Tom poured himself some, feeling the need to calm his nerves. Harry was very adamantly _not_ thinking about the last time he drank with someone. He allowed himself to sink into their easy conversation, picking apart his bread and dunking it into the soup.

While the date wasn't terribly romantic, Tom found himself acting like a love-struck fool anyhow. Their conversation was warm and companionable, riddled with laughter and smirks. Tom brought out a pound cake for dessert - store bought, thankfully - and the two unconsciously scooted their chairs closer.

The entire evening, Harry had lost himself in Tom's fathomless blue eyes and smooth voice. By the time either of them checked the clock, it was close to midnight.

For a brief moment, Tom imagined waking up with Harry cooking breakfast in the kitchen, his hair mussed and body half-dressed. All logic and reason fled at that very instant. "Stay with me," burst from Tom's lips without preemption.

Harry's breath left him. Bright green eyes stared up, not daring to hope.

"It's just," Tom faltered, before bolstering his courage. "It's dangerous to be outside, alone at this time of night."

"I live across the street," Harry felt compelled to remind him.

Tom's eyes glimmered. "I know that. But . . . it'd make me feel better?"

Of course, Harry couldn't say no to _that._

* * *

The second time in a few weeks, Harry awoke in a bed not his own. He wasn't quite sure what woke him, at first. He felt cold, his breath coming in pants. He jolted out of bed suddenly as a resounding, spine-chilling scream echoed from downstairs.

Stumbling out of the bed, Harry swept into Tom's living room.

Tom was curled up on the couch, his long limbs likely sore from the fetal position. The man was enchanting while asleep, his expression relaxed and just as handsome as when awake. A surge of affection went through Harry. Tom had insisted Harry take the bed, acting quite gentlemanly about the whole ordeal.

Harry was quickly cut from his trance as the woman screamed once more.

As Tom barely twitched, Harry realized Tom couldn't hear her.

 _Helena._

Carefully, quietly, Harry crept down the staircase. He could feel his heart beating a tattoo against his ribs. It was so dark that he missed a step, clenching onto the stair-rail and holding his breath. He could hear someone rustling around the shop, and wondered why no alarms were going off.

Helena's angered voice was unmistakable, though. _"_ _\- drop that right now, you churlish, reprobate of a man! Or, perhaps not_ man _at all. From your appearance, I'd guess one of your parents fucked an ape, you ugly pile of lard."_

Harry's fingers curled around a vintage baseball bat, spotting the silhouette of a short, pot-bellied creature. "Got no gold, huh, 'Borgin'," the thief was muttering to himself, combing through a pile of costume jewelry. He looked closely at a pearl necklace and placed it into his mouth, gnawing on the stone. With a pleased hum, he slipped it into the open bag at his side.

Footsteps light as a mouse, Harry stepped closer, nose crinkling. He now knew why people called him 'Dung' - the man smelt like a putrid mixture of dogshite and brandy.

The floor boards creaked. Dung's head popped up.

Holding his breath, Harry hid behind a shelf. He waited, sensing the man creep closer, but Dung walked straight past him. Harry watched as Dung's grubby fingers pulled at the storeroom's knob. Dung growled in irritation. Taking a small needle and a hook from his pocket, he picked the lock expertly.

Helena was furious at Harry's inaction. She flickered several hues of silver and stormy blue, the shelf next to Harry rattling ominously. _"Do something!"_

Either too focused or too drunk to notice the minor quaking of the shop, Dung let out a triumphant noise and opened the door. As the thief rumaged around a bit, Harry darted to the door frame, baseball bat held aloft. Dung was currently peeking into a black box, and Harry could see the glint of Tom's locket.

Anger enveloping his mind like a fiery embrace, Harry pressed his back to the wall and waited for Dung to finish. As he tried to cross the threshold, Harry swung for the knees. His aim was sure, a deafening _crack_ heard as Dung crumpled forward.

"What'cha think yer doin'?" the man shouted. He swung blindly at Harry's face. The blow landed on his jaw and Harry's head smacked into the wall.

What ensued was a pretty pathetic struggle. Harry's vision was tampered by the darkness, and all he could see was a vague silhouette. And Dung was stronger than he appeared. Harry was shoved into Helena's diadem, the glass box shattering on impact. Helena collapsed to the ground in a pile of floating fabric, cradling her diadem reverently. Seeing the slightest crack in the amethyst, she _wailed,_ the walls rattling.

Tom shouted from upstairs, hearing the commotion. In Harry's distraction, Dung tossed the bat away and snatched up his bag. Most of the contents had spilled in their scuffle, but Dung didn't notice or care. The man slipped out of the door and into the night.

On the ground, Harry swore vividly, prodding at his jaw.

The lights flickered on and a heavy hand landed on Harry's slender shoulder. Tom was haphazardly dressed, a cotton shirt pulled over his black night shorts. Blue eyes took in the mess and the growing bruise on Harry's face, Tom's expression setting into one of cold understanding. "Oh, Harry. Let's check on that wound, shall we?"

"But Tom," Harry rasped, allowing himself to be helped up. "Your things - "

"Are just that. _Things,"_ the man said fiercely. "You're a bit more important, I'd think."

* * *

News spread through Knockturn alarmingly fast. Speaking of alarms - "Why wasn't yours on?" Filius asked curiously.

 _The Hut_ was bustling with customers, Olympe manning the counter while Harry helped Tonks in the kitchen. Harry's pastries were far softer and sweeter, a welcome change to their usual rock-hard state. Meanwhile, Tom was surrounded by the other shopkeepers, who were quick to swarm him. Flitwick had offered to change his locks, while Hooch graciously shared her flask of gin.

"Borgin never told anyone the alarm's passcode. I took out the batteries and haven't had anyone come around to reset it," Tom swallowed, the gin bitter on his tongue.

"You should do that," Pomona said helpfully.

"A bit late for that, isn't it?" he snarked.

"Good thing Harry was there!" Filius chimed in. "Did he give a description of _'Dung'_ to the police?"

"Dark and short."

"Not really helpful," Hooch said dubiously.

Pomona patted her hand. "It was the middle of the night, cut poor Harry some slack," she soothed. "I think it was very brave of him to - "

Gilderoy, who was pouting in a corner by himself, let out a loud scoffing noise. "Play hero? Wave a stick and yell threateningly? The thief _still_ got away. Some hero," he muttered, playing with his tea bag. "Bloody psychic had an upper hand, anyways, probably 'saw' the man coming."

Tom arched a brow. "Are you _jealous_ of Harry, Gilderoy? He could have easily been _killed_ by that criminal," he said coolly. "Disparage Harry again, and I might arrange for you have your own first-hand experience."

"Tom," Filius mediated, his moustache twitching nervously. "No one's doubting Harry's heroics," he tried to distract. "Remind me, what's all that was taken?"

Glacial blue eyes were reluctantly torn from Lockhart. "Just a few meaningless baubles. . . and an old locket. My mother's."

Lockhart's head shot up, blonde hair bouncing. He bit his lip, not wanting to be snapped at again, but his conceited manner won out. He desperately wished to be center of attention again. "A locket?" he asked. "About this big? With an _'S'_ in the middle?"

All chatter seemed to halt. Tom appraised the man dubiously. "How did you know that?"

Back straightening, a small smile slipped onto his pink lips, a flash of straight white teeth. "Well," he began. "Just this morning, a drunkard came to my shop and tried to give it to me."

" _Give_ it to you? What did he look like?" Tom stood, speaking urgently. "Where did he go?"

Tapping a well-manicured nail against his chin, Lockhart cocked his head. "I daresay I can't recall." The others looked scandalized at the blonde's antics. "But I might be _persuaded_ to remember, if you give me something in return. It's only fair," the man defended.

"Name your price." Tom spoke too hastily. Lockhart's eyes lit with a sly, greedy gleam. They drifted to the kitchen, where Harry was chatting with Tonks, a purple bruise marring his otherwise flawless skin. "Not that."

"Oh, but it's just the one thing, really," Gilderoy pleaded. "I've been _dying_ to see him in one of my best-sellers. I know you want to fuck him too, Riddle - and wouldn't he look just _ravishing_ in lace?" his voice dropped sensually.

"Your clothes are tawdry and inelegant - "

"Didn't seem to bother him before." Lockhart leaned forward conspiratorially. "He's bought from me before. He had longer hair at the time, but looked much the same as he does now. I caught a glimpse in the changing room mirror, and - by god - was he lovely. With all that pale skin flushing pink - "

Tom felt uncomfortably warm, glad that Lockhart had the sense to lower his voice. "When was this?"

"Oh," Lockhart flapped a hand. "Back when Severus owned the apothecary. Harry thought himself in love with the man, but Severus was as straight as the crow flies. Harry tried very hard to be _appealing_ to him, dressing in all manner of pretty things, but Severus was a stubborn old fool. The man's dead now, and Harry hasn't had the courage - or the reason - to buy from me since."

Tom remembered the night before, and the thin sheen of makeup on Harry's lips. He hadn't thought much of it then, but imagining Harry with full, pink lips, dressed 'pretty' enough to wear Helena's crown had him biting back a moan. Gilderoy grinned knowingly and Tom fought the urge to hit the man. "So . . . if I get Harry to agree to this perverted _scheme_ of yours, you'll tell me about the man with my mother's locket?"

"Anything you need to know," he said sincerely.

* * *

A half hour later, Harry was seething.

He felt like a doll being passed around, Lockhart leering at him from behind rows and rows of lingerie. The man was making disturbing, deeply thoughtful noises as he held up different colors and fabrics to Harry's skin.

 _Lockhart's Lusty Lucks_ was decorated in truly painful shades of periwinkle, lilac and bright gold. They had the whole shop to themselves, and were subjected to Celestina Warbeck's crooning voice over the radio system. Lockhart regaled them with gossip about the woman, and Harry learned many things about Warbeck he did not particularly want to know. That included her penchant for 'going commando'. "I respect a woman's choice to wear what she finds most comfortable, but when Celestina wore that sheer dress to the premiere of _The Banshees,_ you could see everything _-_ and I mean _everything."_

Tom and Harry shared a look. "Just let him finish." A hand was clamped around his wrist to keep Harry from fleeing. "Do this for me, please."

It was already a well-established fact that Harry couldn't say no to him.

Harry was apparently a very tricky customer, but after a bit of threatening on Tom's part, Lockhart finally made his decision. _"O_ _h,_ yes, I believe this is perfect," he purred, holding up a pair of astronomically tight briefs. They were a dark shade of red, and thankfully, there wasn't a bow in sight. Instead, they were 'breathable' and gossamer, web-like in it's texture. Harry's cheeks flushed nearly as red as the underwear. "Not quite like the last set you bought. Those were a bit cheaper," Lockhart mused. "Whatever happen to that old pair?"

Green eyes flashed warningly, glancing at the carefully blank-faced Tom. "I burned them with Severus' ashes," Harry hissed.

"More's the pity," Lockhart shooed him into the changing rooms. "Go on, quickly now. And show us when you're done!"

Heart thumping like a hummingbird's, Harry slipped into the back, clutching the briefs to his chest.

A sly grin crossed Lockhart's lips and he quickly beckoned Tom behind the counter. "Look at this," he turned on a computer screen, which immediately opened to camera footage showing a short hallway, decorated with a cushioned chair and a potted plant. "It's for security, first and foremost, but if I turn the camera just so - " he twisted the toggle, and with a soft _whir_ _ring_ noise, the camera caught sight of a closed curtain. Toggled upward, they could see just a hint of Harry's body through a mirror's reflection.

Tom's vision went red. "You absolutely _disgusting_ pervert," he hissed, slamming his fist onto the _esc._ button. "That can't possibly be legal."

Gilderoy lifted his hands, looking defensive. "I swear, you're the only one I've shown it too. It's not _really_ pornography - "

"But it's still illegal, not to mention a betrayal of trust. How do you think your customers would feel if they heard about this? How do you think _Harry_ would feel if - "

Panic flashed through his eyes. "Alright, alright!" he shouted, before lowering his voice. "I'll disable the camera. Just don't tell Harry - "

They were interrupted by a cough. "Tell me what?" a small voice spoke up.

Tom quickly moved from Lockhart, unaware that he'd been practically spitting in the man's face. Harry was standing uncomfortably in the hallway, wearing a shirt but no pants. He looked incredibly endearing, his green eyes hooded and his face burning. His lightly furred legs were crossed, hiding the slight bulge that was visible through the red briefs. Tom felt his mouth go dry.

"If nothing," Gilderoy said quickly, noticing that Tom was a bit preoccupied. The man forced on a smile, circling Harry like a shark. "You look ravishing, Harry," he crooned. He nearly tried to lift the boy's shirt, before thinking better of it. Tom was still furious, and it wasn't wise to poke the sleeping dragon. "You know what - free of charge," he said, hurrying over to the cash register. He grabbed a complimentary bag, putting it into Harry's hands. "There's a coupon in there for any future purchases - and a condom, because we encourage safe sex here at _Lockhart's Lusty Looks,_ " he winked. "Now, you get dressed, and we can have a nice chat."

Harry darted away to grab his pants. Tom tried very hard to compose himself, focussing on his anger to distract from his sudden erection.

"Start talking," Tom demanded of Lockhart as soon as Harry returned. Harry seemed content to avoid Tom's eyes, and Tom let him. They had more important things to worry about.

"Where should I begin?" Lockhart puffed out a breath, sitting back onto his stool. "Well, a few months ago, I began to notice a little homeless man begging in front of my building. He smelt awful and was covered in a layer of dirt, so of course I avoided him like the plague. But when he began to bother my customers, I was anything but happy. I chewed him out a few times, but the man kept coming back. Eventually I realized it wasn't spare change that he wanted. Somehow, in that time, he fell in love with _me,"_ Lockhart said in amazement. "I have an eye for these things, you know. The man watched me through the window every chance he got, and once, he told told me I would look 'bloody hot' in anything I sold," his lips pulled up in satisfaction. "He noticed that I wasn't dating anyone, and began to _offer_ himself. Of course, he was slurring something awful, so - "

"Did you ever take him up on it?" Harry wrinkled his nose.

"Of course not! I prefer my partners sober," Lockhart said seriously. "But it was flattering all the same. Then, he began to bring me gifts. I thought it very strange, considering the man was workless, broke and living on the streets - "

"What _sort_ of gifts?" Tom asked.

"I do wish you would stop interrupting me!"

"Answer the question."

Gilderoy sighed. "Oh, first it was little things - some cufflinks, a watch, a nice leather wallet. Simple things."

"Pickpocket," Tom murmured, crossing his arms.

"Then he brought me a whole bouquet of lilacs!" Gilderoy smiled delightedly. "He remembered when I told him they were my favorite."

Tom leaned close to Harry. "Was Pomona a victim of this man's affections, by any chance?"

Harry nodded, expression sombre. "Late April, she noticed a batch of flowers missing in broad daylight. He was getting braver, I suppose. After that, _Borgin's_ was broken into for the first time. Borgin left notes on what was stolen, for insurance."

" - and then he brought me a set of silver goblets and a bottle of red wine!"

Furious, Tom pinched his nose. "I've read those notes. 15th-century silver cups? Embossed with a skull and three ravens?"

"Something like that," Lockhart said dismissively. "I thought the skull was a bit macabre, but I never say no to a good drink. I shared the bottle with him. Fletcher's always roaring drunk, but I figured a few more drinks couldn't hurt."

Tom made a note of the name.

"Fast-forward a bit, Gilderoy," Harry urged. "What happened this morning?"

"Oh!" Gilderoy blinked. "Yes, right. Hm. I was on my way for breakfast, and I spotted Fletcher stumbling over the curb, looking rather worse for wear," Tom sent Harry a proud look. "He had a gold locket in his hands, and he practically shoved it into my face. Thing is, gold clashes with my hair, so I told him to sell it at a pawn shop or something. Fletcher really needsthe money. You should've seen him. He dresses in rags, and always smells _horrid._ The least he could do is rent a motel room for the night and take a damned shower - "

 _"Gilderoy,"_ Tom warned. "Where'd he sell it?"

"I don't know! He seemed very skittish, and left soon after."

Harry changed the question. "Well, where does he _usually_ go during the days?"

"The pub, most likely," Gilderoy said after a moment of thought. "That one off Hogsmeade - the _Hog's Head?_ That's where he wastes all his money on drinks. Poor man is probably going to have liver failure," Lockhart looked at Harry. "You've seen it firsthand with Severus, Harry, what are the symptoms?"

Sensing danger in those green eyes, Tom quickly pulled Harry towards the door before either of them could slap Lockhart across his attractive face. "Nevermind that. We have to go. Just remember what you promised."

Gilderoy nodded hurriedly. "Er, yes, of course."

"What'd he promise you?" Harry asked, tucking the bag of underwear beneath his arm, hiding the logo from any nosy shoppers.

Tom responded with a dark expression aimed at _Lockhart's Lusty Looks_. "You don't want to know."

* * *

Far different from the bar George had taken him to, _The Hug's Head_ was the sort of seedy, disreputable place that societal rejects were allowed to roam free. The walls smelt faintly of mold and the wooden chairs and tables were splintered nearly to the point of disrepair. Like the name stated, the head of a boar was gaping at them from atop a flickering fireplace. It's bottom husks were large and pointed toward the heavens.

Tom took the lead, wading through a brawling crowd of men to reach the counter. Harry kept his head down, avoiding the leers and dark stares. Tom squeezed his hand reassuringly and spoke with confidence.

"We're looking for a Mister Fletcher," he said to the barkeep.

The man had stringy white hair and dull blue eyes - his face had an eerie familiarity. Spitting into a pewter cup, the man dried it with an already tattered and stained rag. "Who's asking?"

"It's none of your business," Tom lifted his head. "Fletcher has something of mine."

Blue eyes flitted to Harry. "Something of yours, huh? You should be more careful with your _things_. Including pretty boy, here." There was an underlying warning to his words.

"I can take care of myself, thanks," Harry spoke up, his expression one of fierce stubbornness. He took a seat across from the man. "My name is Harry. _Not_ 'pretty boy'. What's yours?"

The man was silent for a moment before his lips stretched into a thin smile. "I'll be damned. It talks, and has a bite, too. Name's Aberforth. Now, either buy somethin' or ya'll can take yourselves out of my bar. I don't want any trouble stirred up."

"A bottle of your finest, then," Tom slapped a few notes onto the tabletop. "Two glasses. _Clean,_ if you would, and by that I mean with soap and water."

"As you wish," the man said with amusement. He disappeared for a moment, and Harry could hear the sound of rushing water. A few minutes later, Aberforth returned, sliding the glasses across the counter with a scraping noise. "Firewhiskey," he said simply. "Of my own creation."

Sniffing the orange, sparkling liquid, Tom was the first to taste it. The sensation was quite unlike anything he'd ever experienced. Tom resisted making a face. "That's - interesting."

Aberforth laughed. "It's got a bite, like your boy," he winked. "A Dumbledore family recipe."

"Dumbledore?" Harry's eyes widened. "Are you related to Albus Dumbledore?"

All hint of mirth fled from the barkeep's face. "Don't tell me he got'ta you too. After Ariana, he always did like little'uns," Aberforth descended into mumbling.

Harry blinked. "What? What do you - no. Albus is my - we both work on Knockturn. He owns a candy shop."

Aberforth looked disgusted. "Like I said, little boys and girls." Abruptly, he pointed a finger at Harry's chest. "Stay away from my brother if you knew what's best for you. Why do you think he got fired from that fancy professor job?"

"What?" Harry asked in bewilderment. "Those were just allegations, I thought?"

The barkeep snorted. "He weaseled his way out of court, sure, but that doesn't make those kids' claims any less true. I know my brother, and what he's done ain't right. I've seen men do less and end up with a life penalty."

"You'd see your own brother in jail?"

"He would deserve it," the man said vehemently.

Tom's brow furrowed in confusion. "What are you talking about? Who's - " The bar door opened with a clang. The smell of dung wafted through, unmistakable. The two stiffened.

Tom eyed the short and putrid man that limped into the pub. He had dark features and dried, scarred skin. Pink scrapes trailed up his bare arms, a cut on his cheek caked with dried blood. He walked as though his kneecaps had been shattered. Harry recognized the man instantly, and lifted his collar over the bruise on his cheek.

Aberforth whistled as Fletcher shakily sat. "Someone sure did a number on you, Fletcher."

Dung grimaced and counted out a few coins. "Yeah, but I made good business. Got a good fifty quid, so I'm celebrating today. Gimme the bottle, if yeh would."

Tom sat rigidly in his seat. Consolingly, Harry grasped the man's thigh. "Take a drink," he muttered. Tom compiled, carefully smoothing out the hard lines in his face.

Once Aberforth left them, he brushed Harry's hand away and crossed his legs leisurely. "Fletcher, is it?" he drawled, turning towards the man. "I've heard of you."

Dung blinked warily at the tall man before him. Clenching the stem of his bottle, he took a deep drink. "Yeah? I wonder where."

"Around," Tom said idly. "You sold my friend something. An . . " he thought back to Borgin's insurance list. Fletcher had stolen much from the man, including an old - "Orrery. It's a model of the solar system."

"Aye," Dung grunted. He eyed Tom dubiously. "I remember that. Yer a friend of ol' Trelawney?"

Harry choked on his Firewhiskey at the name.

"Well. A friend of a friend," Tom conceded. He took a chance. "My companion here knows Trelawney better, don't you?"

Faintly trembling, Harry lowered his glass. "Er, yes. She's a medium. We all run in the same circles."

"Well, she's a fake, anyhow," Fletcher mumbled. "Paid a pretty penny fer the orrery-thing, but claimed my da' was still alive."

Harry glanced at a dark, brooding figure, in the corner. The spirit was weak, blending into the shadows. "Oh? Your father . . . Benedict Fletcher?"

Bloodshot eyes widened. "How did you . . . ?"

"Your father is very disappointed in you," the boy spoke ominously, moving forward. Tom graciously leaned away. "Petty theft, black market dealing, living on the streets - he didn't die overseas so you could just . . . _waste away_ in a pub," Harry gestured violently. Fletcher's father was utterly silent, creeping behind his son with slack, morose features. A gold badge glistened on his chest, the only bright spot in his grim existence.

Fletcher stood quickly, beady gaze darting about. "S - stop that. Whatever you want, you can have it, just - "

"We want a silver locket," Harry said immediately. "The one you stole from _Borgin & Burkes _last night. The one you tried to pawn off to Gildeory Lockhart."

"That _snitch,"_ he hissed, and tried to dart away. Tom blocked his path, arms crossed, unimpressed.

"A snitch, maybe," Harry agreed. "But you fancy him, don't you? Watching him as he works, bringing him gifts when you have none to spare. It's a twisted sort of affection, but Lockhart's a twisted sort of man," he placed a hand on Fletcher's shoulder, holding the bone tightly. "Your pa doesn't mind, you know," he said softly. "That you like men. He's only really ashamed about the whole, you know, _criminal_ thing."

"What . . . what does he expect me to do?" the man whined. "I can't - "

"You _can._ Get a real job, go to rehab, pay off your debts, bloody well take a _shower_ for once. Maybe then, Gilderoy will start to see you as more than just 'that creepy, homeless drunkard'."

Fletcher slumped his shoulders. "Tha's really what he thinks o' me?"

"Something like that," Harry would rather not think too hard about Lockhart and Dung's strange relationship. "You know . . . if you've got any experience with a cash register, _The Hut_ in Knockturn is hiring. Lockhart stops in every morning, and all those people you stole from, they stop by too," he said slyly. "It's a good place to make friends, rather than enemies."

Dung looked a strange mixture of nausea and wistfulness. "I'll - I'll think about it."

Harry considered the man for a long moment, before releasing him.

"Good." Tom jumped in quickly, his voice low and calm. "While you do that, why don't you tell us about that locket?"

Fletcher tugged at his shirt nervously. "I sold it, only a bit ago, to _another_ friend of Trelawney. Sybil's bonkers, but she's got all sorts of high-paying contacts that aren't afraid to buy stolen goods," he coughed, the sound rough and grating.

 _Who?"_

"W - well, it was a little old lady that took a fancy to the locket. Bow on top of 'er head. Looked like a toad."

Harry raised a hand to his face, a groan passing through his lips. _"Umbridge,"_ he muttered, with more loathing than Tom would ever have expected from his boy.

* * *

 ** _To be continued . . ._**

* * *

 ** _A/N: For a bit of context and to learn more about Harry and his first love, read the prequel_ Lost Boy. **


	5. Toxication or Infatuation

_**False Prophets**_

 **TanninTele**

* * *

 _Disclaimer: All rights belong to J.K. Rowling, voiding that of original content and characters._

* * *

NEIL: _"So, does everyone come back as a ghost?"_

NORMAN: _"No. My grandma told me it's usually people that still have stuff to figure out,_

 _or sometimes it's the ones who died suddenly or in a bad way."_

 _\- Paranorman,_ Focus Features

* * *

 **V:**

'Lady Lucifer' certainly lived up to her name; but if this was hell, it was very . . . frilly.

As they stepped in, Harry adopted a look of distaste.

The shop smelt overwhelmingly like incense and perfume, a mixture that made their heads spin. At first, Tom wasn't sure if this was a tea shop or a psychic's, as Madame Umbridge's teacup collection rivaled even _Borgin's._ Glowing crystals emitted a soft red hue that reflected off the porcelain dishware. Portraits of cats adorned the walls, the ugliest of all a great white Persian sitting pompously on a cushion.

Pink was obviously Umbridge's favorite color, the walls painted differing shades of peach and bubblegum. The rest of the room was decorated with doilies and faux fur curtains. A list of decrees was framed beside the door, telling Tom and Harry to remove their shoes. "Are you here for an appointment with the High Priestess?" a secretary asked, seated behind a tall white desk. The woman had short black hair and plump cheeks.

Tom and Harry exchanged an incredulous glance. _"High Priestess?"_ Tom mouthed.

"Er, not really," Harry began slowly. "Is she free?"

"She's with a client presently," the woman said, pulling out a clipboard. "If you take a seat, she'll be available in another fifteen minutes."

Tom released a long sigh, plopping onto one of the overly cushioned love seats. Harry remained standing, watching the secretary with an unreadable expression. "Is your name Pansy Parkinson?" he asked abruptly.

The woman jerked her head up in surprise. Harry nodded at her name tag, and she blushed. "Yes, sir."

"Did you know a man named Peter Pettigrew? He did a few stand-ups at _Zonko's_ _Comedy Club."_

Her eyes lit up. "I do! He was very funny. Are you a fan?"

"Not quite," Harry said wryly. "My name is Harry Prince," he grasped her hand lightly. "I'm sorry to be the one to tell you, but Peter . . . he's dead."

Pansy gaped at him. " _What?_ W-what happened to him?"

"A cat darted in front of his car as he drove home from a show," Pansy's hand went over her heart. She glanced at a cat portrait, expression affronted. "Peter's spirit ended up haunting the cat and it's owner. I'm a medium," he explained. "I helped Peter pass on. He told me that he . . . erm, _really_ liked you."

The girl gave a startled giggle. "Oh, that's a pity.I thought he was very funny, so I gave him my number. I always wondered why he never called back." Pansy glanced at him curiously. "And you helped him move on?"

"He was very stubborn, but yes."

"So, you're the real deal, huh?" Her expression turned serious. "Not like - not like _her?"_

Harry gave her a grim smile. "I'd like to think so."

"I'm . . . I'm going to take my lunch break and make some calls." Pansy grabbed a bag from beneath the table. "H - her door is on the left."

She left in a hurry and Tom stared at Harry with an expression akin to amazement. "You certainly have a way with people."

Harry shrugged sheepishly. "I've dealt with enough dead ones to understand live ones well enough."

"You manipulate them, you mean." His tone wasn't accusing, and, in fact, Tom wore a bit of a proud smirk.

"Well, it's working to your advantage, isn't it?"

As they approached the door, Harry had to place his hand on the wall to steady himself. Hit with a sudden wave of depression and anxiety, he closed his eyes tightly.

 _He was wearing a hole in the carpet, bare feet brushing against the coarse rug. When faced with stress, it was always better for him to be active - otherwise he might find distraction with some other nasty habit._ _After all, wasn't it Cedric's lack of self-control that led him to this situation?_

 _It was a rather stormy night, mimicking Cedric's mood. His father was late coming home from work, but that was only prolonging Cedric's suffering. Cedric almost wished Cho was there with him. It would have been a lot easier._

"Are you alright?" Tom asked in concern, jolting Harry from the foreign thoughts.

"Yes," he bit out. "Let's get this over with."

Tom opened the door. The light from the hall streamed into the darkened room. Madame Umbridge was sitting atop a pink cushioned throne, eyes shut in meditation. She lazily stroked the spine of her cat. A pampered creature, it's fur was tied into bows and it's claws painted magenta. Amusingly, the feline seemed to _despise_ Umbridge.

Hedwig - for that's what was bedazzled onto her collar - barely resisted baring her teeth as Umbridge scratched at a particularly sensitive spot. The feline's bright eyes focused on the interlopers, and she let out a mewl.

Umbridge was snapped from her daze.

"Oh!" Dolores clutched onto Hedwig as the feline tried to slip away. "Can't you see I'm in the middle of a _very_ important séance? Who are you? Where is Pansy? Pansy?!"

"She's on her break," Tom snapped and flipped on the lights.

The room's occupants blinked. A younger girl was sitting cross-legged on the floor, long, dark hair a sharp contrast to Umbridge's mousy grey.

Dung's description was spot-on. Dolores was squat and plump like a toad, the pink bow on top nearly as large as her ego. Settled in her ample bosom was Tom's locket, the gold chain glinting. _"You!"_ she gasped, leaping to her heeled feet. Hedwig hissed and darted away. "Hadran Prince! Come to scope out the competition, hm?"

"There is no competition, Dolores," Harry said with an eye roll. "We're sorry to interrupt your . . . whatever this is," he wrinkled his nose at the silver bowl of cat food and the box of scented litter directly beside her throne. Harry wondered if this was the magical litter box he'd heard rumors about. "But we've come with a matter of some importance."

Dolores' brow furrowed. "It can't wait? You have interrupted my meditation . . . the connection has been cut. I may need to began channeling again - " she looked around for Hedwig, clucking her tongue.

 _"'Channeling,' sure, you fake,"_ A tall, lean spirit darted in and out of Harry's vision, as if it was pacing anxiously.

 _Cedric's spine straightened as a car door slammed shut; the sound was barely distinguishable among the pitter-patter of rain on the shingles._ _Their home was small and old, the most Amos could afford as a single parent. He worked tirelessly most days at a bland desk job, leaving home early and coming home late._ _Amos Diggory had been an avid rugby player in his prime. He might've made a career as a professional, if not for the sudden and unexpected shattering of his left tibia._ _The man unlocked the front door, his grey hair drenched and limp, framing red-stained cheeks. Amos still walked with a perceptible limp. _Looking at the man, you wouldn't peg him for an athlete. As Amos removed his tweed jacket, Cedric could see the slight ripple of hard-earned muscles, softened by the years.__

 _Cedric bore little resemblance to the man that raised him. Their only similarity lay in the color of their eyes, but Amos' were smudged with sleepless bags. Cedric felt another strike of guilt go through him._

 _Pushing it back, he lifted his chin and stepped into the light of the hallway._

The spirit's restlessness bled over to Harry, and the boy clutched Tom's hand tightly. A thumb brushing over his knuckles, Tom soothed him without a word. Harry's verdant gaze fixated onto the slim girl on the ground. She stared up at them in bewilderment.

"Are you . . . Cho?"

Doe-like eyes widened. "Y - yes. Who are you?"

"He is my competition!" Madame Umbridge screeched. "Do not speak with him. I see what you're trying to do here, Prince," She wagged a puffy finger. "You are a crook, stealing my clients without care -"

"Madame," Tom cut in. "You are in possession of stolen goods, and if anyone is a crook here, it's you."

 _'Ced!' Amos said in surprise. 'How are you, my boy?'_

 _It had been almost a week since they last each other. By the time Cedric made it home from rugby practice, Amos would be fast asleep in his armchair, and by the time Cedric pulled himself out of bed, Amos would be off to work._

 _'It's Wednesday, isn't it?' Amos checked his watched. 'Don't you have - '_

 _'Practice was cancelled,' Cedric said quietly._

 _'Oh! I'm surprised. You'd think, knowing the scholarships you've got lined up, that Coach Moody would be a lot less lenient.' He wrung out his hair, chuckling. 'Rain or not.'_

 _Amos would know - Moody had taught him some twenty-odd years ago. Coach's military experience led him to be a hard task-maker, pushing Cedric harder than anyone else on the team at Amos' request._ _Cedric didn't want to talk about rugby or the scholarships anymore. It seemed that one the rare occasions father and son_ did _talk, rugby was their only common interest._

 _'Dad,' he took in a deep breath. 'There's something I have to tell you.'_

Harry startled as Umbridge spoke. "I am _no_ thief!" Her screech was deafening.

"That can be debated. Regardless, the man who sold you that locket _is_ a thief _,_ " Tom said coolly. "He stole it from my shop."

Umbridge clutched the locket to her heart. "I paid for it with my own, hard earned cash. It's _mine!"_

"If you comply peacefully, I'd be willing to pay you back . . . with interest," Tom coaxed.

Umbridge twitched at the mention of money, her mouth shutting with a _click._ Harry was surprised at how easily she caved. "I suppose if I'm to be reimbursed," she shuffled fitfully. "I can't remember the exact number, though. Somewhere near . . . seventy quid?"

"That's not what Fletcher told us."

The woman flushed brightly. "Well, if he's a criminal, it's not so outrageous for him to be a liar as well!" Deciding it wasn't worth the fight, Tom reluctantly pulled out his wallet.

 _' - if she decides to keep the baby, I'm taking responsibility for it.' Cedric finished, peeking up at his father, who had begun to turn an odd shade of puce._

 _Amos paced across the hall, his eyes wide and his mouth floundering like a fish. ' I can't_ believe _this, you idiot child - once word gets out, they're going to remove your scholarship and - '_

 _Cedric bit his lip, trying not to get angry at his father._

 _'I've got bigger things to worry about than rugby, da,' he said patiently. 'The scholarships don't really matter - '_

 _'Don't matter?! It's all we've ever dreamed of! It was your ticket_ out of here, _and you're just throwing it away? For some - some -_ slut?'

 _Cedric stiffened, his eyes darkening. 'That 'slut' is the mother of my unborn child! Don't you_ dare _call Cho that word. She's braver than anyone; me or you - though that's not especially hard, seeing as you're acting like a spineless_ coward.'

 _Amos' jaw clicked shut, his face going red._

Umbridge shoved the necklace callously into Tom's hands and stuffed the money into her brasserie. "You have your locket," her nose went into the air. "Now leave, so I may continue. We've gone overtime, deary, that'll be a bit extra - "

"No," the girl fumed, having been ignored for the last five minutes. "This is utterly ridiculous. Cedric didn't even _like_ cats, why the hell would his spirit be channeled through one?"

Dolores rushed to explain. "Cats are very spiritual, I assure you."

Cho stared at her with a fair amount of disgust. "Marietta _told_ me this would be a waste of time, and she was right," she grabbed her purse, jumping up. "You're _insane._ I trust that poor cat more than I trust you!" Pushing past Tom and Harry, she left, an angry flush to her cheeks.

 _"_ _That's my girl,"_ Cedric spoke, his croons naught but a whisper.

Harry glared at Umbridge, and allowed the ghost to speak through him. "I always have my clients pay ahead," Harry told her. "But if you want to be paid _well_ , you ought to try treating people with _human decency_ for once, you absolute hag."

Harry left the room, trying to catch up with the dark-haired girl.

She was on the sidewalk, a phone pressed to her ear. " - just wanted to talk to him one last time, Marie. I don't understand _why . . ."_

She was crying freely.

 _Cedric rushed through the streets of his hometown, body shivering from the cold, though his face burned with anger. His silver eyes glinted in the foggy lamplight, the color wide and bright as he took a misstep. The wet cement slid beneath his feet, the boy falling forward -_

"He didn't die on purpose, you know," Harry spoke up, startling the girl.

Nearly dropping the phone, Cho whirled around.

"I - I'll call you back, Marie," she muttered, eyeing Harry dubiously. "Yes, I'm fine. I'll call you back." She clicked the lid down and addressed Harry.

"What do you mean by _that_?"

"It wasn't on purpose," Harry repeated, putting his hands in his pockets. "You all thought he jumped in front of that car on purpose, but it was an accident."

Cho's breath caught. "How do you know that?"

"Like Umbridge said, I'm sort of her 'competition' in the medium business," he shrugged lightly. "Except she's sort of terrible, isn't she?"

"Yes! That 'séance' was utter bullshite!" Cho exclaimed, tugging on her long hair. "I was there for a good half-hour, and the most she could tell me about Cedric was that his d . . death was a 'horrible tragedy'and that her _cat_ thought I had negative energy.

"Wait, why are you talking to me?" her eyes darted around hopefully. "He's not really . . . here, is he?"

 _Cedric was met head-on by the blaze of a car's headlights._ _It happened so very fast. Cedric's last thoughts were of his father, his unborn child, and of a soft-spoken girl with tearful, doe-like eyes._

Harry stared into those eyes now, biting his lip.

 _"I'm here,"_ Cedric whispered, appearing behind her with a steady stream of golden light. He was really quite handsome, with bronze hair and watery, silver-streaked features, like a chalk painting washed away in the rain. _"I've been here the whole time, watching over you."_

"He's here," Harry's eyes flickered to Cho's flat stomach, giving her a significant look. Cho blushed furiously.

"I had it aborted," she whispered, slapping a hand over her mouth to stop her sobs. "A - after Cedric died, I couldn't . . . I couldn't stand the thought of being a single mother. My friend Marietta helped me through it all. It was just me and her against the world. I never told my parents," she gave a watery smile. "Marie wanted to be here with me today, but I told her this was something I needed to do alone. Now, I kind of wish she was here."

"Cedric wants you to know, " Harry paused, listening. "That he would've helped you raise the child, with or without his father's input. But he understands. He's not angry, or upset. He just wishes things could've ended differently.

"If you ever need grief support - and this is shameless endorsement here - you ought to visit _Pandora's Recovery Center._ My friend opened the place after her mum died . . . I lost someone I loved too, and she really helped. They're meeting in two weeks on Saturday. I try to suggest it to all my clients, because while séances are all well and good . . . a person needs support from the _living,_ too."

"I have a date that day, with Marie, to see an orchestra concerto," she blushed brightly, biting her lip. "But I'll look into it."

Harry smiled at her. "That's alright. Try to consider inviting Cedric's father, Amos, to _Pandora's_ as well."

"I haven't seen him since the funeral. He was so upset . . .we all were," the girl whispered, wiping her cheeks.

"It wasn't your fault," Harry felt the need to mention. "Yours, or Cedric's father. Cedric needed you to understand that."

Cho nodded haltingly. "Yeah. I - well, let's just say I understand things a lot better now."

At her words, the air seemed a lot warmed and Cho's tears finally stopped streaming. Harry mimicked Cedric's glorious smile, and Cho's breath caught. Her phone buzzed in her hand, startling them both.

"I - I've got to take this," she clenched it tightly. "Thank you, Harry. Really." She turned away, her sheen of black hair fluttering. "Goodness, Marie, you'll never _believe_ \- "

Harry startled as a hand was settled onto his shoulder. He stared up into Tom's soft blue eyes. "Everything's good now," he answered Tom's unspoken question.

"Good." Tom had been watching from a distance as Harry spoke with Cho. He couldn't help but notice that Harry was beautiful when doing what he loved - helping people. He cleared his throat. "Now, how'd you like to join me on my next quest . . . fixing my security system?"

Harry sighed loudly, but his lips quirked with the hint of a smile. _"Fine_ , but you owe me for all this. It was entirely too taxing on my mental health."

Tom laughed. "Alright, _dear_. Anything you need." 

His hand slipped into Harry's and the two walked away, shoulders brushing. Unbeknownst to them, a white fluffy cat with bows in her fur crept out of _The High Priestess'_ and ran off into the distance, finally free from her captor.

* * *

Weeks passed.

After the warnings from Aberforth and Albus' strange behavior, the name _Dumbledore_ began to rattle around in Harry's brain for some while.

Not to mention, in Harry's cowardice, he had greatly neglected Luna, Dean, Padma and the others. Guilt simmering slowly in his stomach, the boy finally decided it was time to return to _Pandora's._

. . . But he was bringing Tom with.

In fact, Tom had _insisted_ , wanting to meet more of Harry's friends. "If they're all as _charming_ as Lockhart, I might become a bit worried," the man said offhandedly as they shared a light breakfast.

"Lockhart is _not_ my friend. He's a creep." Harry's cheeks tinged red. The lace panties (their purchase not yet a distant memory) were buried at the bottom of his laundry basket. Harry couldn't bring himself to get rid of them, struck with the memory of Tom's blue eyes blown with desire.

The older man was dressed handsomely today, in a charming beige vest, the sleeves of his blue undershirt cuffed at the elbow. "Good," Tom murmured. "At least you can tell the difference between friend and foe. I had to wonder, what with your 'arrangement' with 'Dung'."

"He prefers Fletcher," Harry said idly, serving Tom some morning tea. "I saw him yesterday, speaking with Olympe over lunch. I think she's considering hiring him. Tonks nearly burnt the kitchen down again."

Tom snickered, blowing the steam from his cup. "I quite enjoyed the pastries you made that once. I think _T_ _he Hut_ would be a lot more popular if you baked for them. Leave _T_ _he Veil of Death_ to pursue your real talent."

"My hair frizzes too much in front of an oven," Harry dismissed the idea immediately. "And _Th_ _e Veil of Death_ is doing well enough, thank you. It could be better," he admitted, not mentioning that he was only a few months away from losing rent.

Humming, Tom stretched his arm out, tugging Harry onto the couch. He pressed his lips to Harry's head. "Perhaps, but no lover of mine will strive for anything less than the _best."_

Harry twisted around and kissed him boldly. Tom made a surprised, pleased noise in his throat, pulling Harry to straddle his muscled thighs. Harry was just as responsive, fingers tugging at Tom's hair with a bruising force.

"You - " Tom rasped out, eyelashes brushing against Harry's cheek. "Ought sell your shop - and - " Tom bit out a groan as Harry's lips latched onto his neck. "Bring your business to my backroom. All my customers will be exposed to your work, and we can share the rent - "

"Is this your way of asking me to move in?" Harry asked, pushing the man away slightly. He was breathless and flushed.

Tom's arms tightened around him. "Do you accept?"

Harry licked his lips. "I - "

A loud honk sounded from outside. Harry slumped forward, sighing. "That'll be our ride."

Jaw twitching, Tom allowed the boy to pull away. "You go on ahead. I'll do the dishes," Tom murmured.

Harry nodded, slipping on his shoes and bounding down the steps. His hair was hopelessly tangled, his cheeks wearing a healthy pink hue. As Tom collected their tea cups, Harry stepped outside. A colorful Volkswagen was waiting by the curb, the windows rolled up. For a brief moment, Harry was reminded of one of those men in vans they warned about - _'don't take candy from strangers.'_ Even if Albus had a . . . _past,_ everyone deserved a second chance, didn't they?

Nervously approaching the car, Harry knocked on the window. It rolled down with a whirring noise and Albus grinned up at him. "Harry, my boy," he said, eyes soft. "I'm glad to see you again."

"You too, Albus. Um. Thank you for coming," he shifted awkwardly.

"Anytime, my boy - " Albus was interrupted by Tom who was locking up the shop behind him. The man was wearing a brown trenchcoat, the style fitting his supple figure well. Albus' sky blue eyes immediately clouded. "Oh. _Oh._ Another _friend_ of yours, Harry?"

Harry spoke softly. "A very good one, Albus. I'd like for him to come with us," Albus seemed to be working up a temper. Harry finished quickly. "His mother has passed from lung cancer, and his uncle had a heart attack a few months ago. I thought it'd be good for him."

White lips pressed together.

Albus couldn't very well protest _that._ "Well. Introduce us, then."

"Tom Riddle," the man smiled charmingly. He took the initiative, reaching out a hand. Albus shook it tentatively through the window, his withered hand practically skeletal compared to Tom's elegant one.

"Albus Dumbledore."

Tom's eyes flashed. "I've heard much about you, Professor Dumbledore."

"I'm not a professor anymore," Albus said. "Come, Harry . . . and Tom _._ Luna is awaiting us."

Tom held the door for Harry, allowing him to slip into the passenger's seat. The Volkswagen was stuffed with candy packages, the boxes taking up most of the seating. Tom squeezed himself among the lemon drops and Drooble's gum in back, nudging away a candy wrapper with his foot.

Putting the car in gear, Albus drove off, turning the volume up on his radio so Tom couldn't hear his and Harry's conversation. " _Just_ a friend, Harry?" he asked, voice low. "Tom seems very . . . charming."

"He is," Harry crossed his arms. "It's not like it was with - you know."

Albus just pursed his lips. He was dressed in darker colors today, his shirt sleeves billowing and his long hair braided into cornrows. He looked a bit like a pirate, with his sugar-stained teeth and the glimmering jewel on his ring finger. "Where'd you get the ring, Albus?"

The older man jerked slightly. "Oh, _this_ old thing," he chuckled, placing his hand into Harry's. Tom stared at them, his gaze heavy and disapproving. Harry looked at the ring, which was colored a dark purple. Etched into it was a strange symbol - it looked like the letter _'A'_ at first glance. "I found it among my sister's things."

"Your sister . . . " Harry said slowly. "The one who died?"

Albus glanced at him. "Yes. Ariana. She was so young, such a sweet girl," he mourned. "I never quite moved on, though I _have_ tried," he gave a small smile.

No one spoke for a while, and eventually Albus removed his hand. Harry released a soft breath, meeting Tom's gaze in the rearview mirror. They both remembered the words from Aberforth. _Stay away from my brother if you knew what's best for you._ Suddenly, Harry felt quite anxious to get to Luna's.

Tom sat stiffly in back. It seemed to him as though Albus was purposefully rolling over every pothole, forcing Tom to clench onto his seat to avoid smacking against the roof.

"Harry!" a soft voice called excitedly.

Harry rushed from the car as soon as they parked, greeting Luna with a tight embrace. Albus was moving deceptively slow, his old bones creaking. "You'll help me carry a few boxes, won't you, Tom?" Albus asked with a smile. Tom saw the hint of yellow incisors, bared like a wildcat's.

As Tom carried at least three boxes of candy, Albus held a small golden box tightly in his hands. Tom sent him a curious look.

"A gift," is all he said, with a wink.

They entered _Pandora's_ and Tom was hit with the smell of scented candles. The room was bustling with life, men and women lounging across the fluffy rug, chattering happily. A table of food was set up in the corner, and Tom dropped the boxes there.

"Tom," Harry beckoned, dragging the man over to his friends. A delicate girl smiled at him. She was dressed in soft yellow, her pale complexion giving her a moth-like appearance. "Luna, meet Tom Riddle," he said proudly. "Tom, meet Luna Lovegood."

"Lovegood?" Tom's head shot up. He inspected the girl closely. "Your family wouldn't happen to be Irish?"

"Yes," she said. "Why do you ask?"

"I think I have something of your family's in my shop." Harry's brows furrowed, and the man elaborated. "I did some research on Gryffin of Moor. He has quite a following amongst Irish historians. His last known ancestor - a missus Deirdre Gryffindor, known among some circles as 'the Fat Lady' - " Luna giggled. " - married Amicus Lovegood of Ireland."

Luna's eyes lit up like two silver moons. "My great-great granddaddy! What was this artifact you're speaking of?"

"A diadem from the early 1800s, owned by Lady Helena Ravenclaw, your distant ancestor. In a strange turn of events, you're also related to Godric Gryffin of Moor, a notable Gaelic warrior - "

Harry cut in before Tom could begin a lecture. "We can have a history lesson later. Helena will be happy," he smiled, pleased that they'd found the diadem's true owner. "You ought to come by and speak with her ghost sometime. Perhaps . . . after I move in," green eyes darted shyly to Tom.

The man's handsome face split into a fond smile, and he drew Harry to his side. Harry tucked his head beneath Tom's chin, and looked at Luna pointedly.

"Tell me about Neville. I see he proposed!"

The girl giggled again, twiddling her fingers, where Alice Longbottom's wedding ring shimmered.

While the three chatted, Albus watched from afar, listening half-heartedly to Seamus Finnegan's story about some pyrotechnic mishap. Dean and Seamus were 'on again', it seemed, the two practically attached at the hip. They weren't the only ones. Albus' eyes narrowed as Tom possessively tugged Harry to his side.

'Just friends', indeed. White fingers tapped against the gold box of chocolates, painstakingly made by the candy connoisseur.

Seamus' story began to gain a crowd. As Harry and Tom parted, Albus took his chance, latching onto Harry's slim wrist. Green eyes widened at the force. "Albus!" he exclaimed. "What is it?"

"Before I forget, these are for your _friend_ , Mister Riddle," he said graciously. "It's Peruvian chocolate - my very best. Think of it as . . . an extended olive branch. You've acted very nervous around me, and I have to wonder if he's . . . _poisoned_ you to me," he shook his head. "But that's just an old man's paranoid mumblings. I hope you kind find it in yourself to forgive me for our earlier _quarrel_. _"_

Harry's eyes softened. "That's kind of you, Albus. Tom will - "

"Just, consider something, my boy," Albus interrupted, clutching Harry's hands. His grip was cold, and iron-tight. "Whatever this Tom is to you, he doesn't know you like I do. He wasn't there to comfort you after _Severus_ ," his lip curled. "He doesn't _understand_ you like I do."

With a jerk, Harry yanked away. "What - Albus! _"_ he shook his head. Harry returned to the comfort of Tom and Luna. The girl seemed to notice Harry's distress and pulled the boy next to her on the beanbag.

"What did he give you?" Tom asked.

"Chocolates," Harry shoved them into his hands. "For you."

"What kind are they?"

Harry shrugged. "Peruvian, I guess."

Cracking open the box, Tom eyed them warily. They were a dark, almost black shade, and decorated with quaint little swirls. Innocuous enough, but Tom wasn't about to eat anything that _Dumbledore_ provided. Moving over to the food table, he handled a plastic fork, pressing it into the chocolate. It cracked under the pressure, bending inward. Green filling oozed out, the smell sickeningly sweet. Tom's nose wrinkled and he prodded it curiously. The filling was oily, and the scent almost burned his eyes. He brought the knife's point to his mouth and tasted a drop.

It was bitter, like poison.

Spitting it out immediately, Tom's face contorted with disgust. He poured himself a glass of punch and washed out his mouth. Breathing heavily, he scooped up the chocolates and hid them in his coat pocket. He stalked over to Dumbledore with a murderous intent.

"Dumbledore," Tom spoke lowly, surprising the older man. Albus turned around with a pleasantly surprised expression.

"Tom, my boy. Isn't Mister Finnegan's story just . . . riveting?"

"Indeed," Tom said dryly. "I've heard many interesting stories lately. Have you ever ventured over to _T_ _he Hog's Head?"_

Dumbledore blinked, his wrinkled mouth twitching. "I can't say I have. I don't usually haunt pubs."

"But you do haunt the beds of underage students," he said, quick as a viper. Albus blanched, and Tom's lips twisted into a vindictive smile. Dumbledore's eyes most certainly had lost their twinkle as they flashed over to Harry.

"Harry already knows all about your _sordid_ past," Tom informed. "But Harry still thinks of you as a _friend,_ one he's unwilling to betray. I, however, am quite aware that your feelings for Harry are anything but platonic." _Or healthy,_ he added internally.

Albus released a long sigh, gaze darting to the floor. "Do you really want to go into this _here?"_ he asked, world-weary.

Tom tipped his head, watching the others. Harry was sitting beside Luna, letting her card her fingers through his hair. They were going around in a circle, speaking of their weeks and - really - anything that was bothering them. Harry smiled at Padma Patil as she told them about Marcus Flint's court date. "Speaking of dates, you know, if you're ready to go out, I know a man that's also lost his twin." Harry told her. "He's bisexual, and quite funny." Padma's eyes lit up in interest.

 _Pandora's_ really was good for Harry, Tom realized. But Harry needed to be more selective with his choice of 'friends'.

"I'm sure no one will notice if we slipped out for a moment."

Tom dragged him outside, where the sun was hidden behind a few clouds. "You tried to poison me," Tom shoved Albus against the wall. "How _medieval,"_ he sneered, the ugly expression marring his otherwise classic features.

"Where's your proof?" Albus gasped out.

"In the filling." Tom tossed down the broken chocolate, green goo splattering across the pavement.

"It's l - lime!"

Tom bared his teeth. "I'm _sure._ A simple taste test will confirm it. Go on," the man reached into his pocket and removed the box, plucking out a piece. He pressed it to Albus' pale lips. The man leaned his head away fearfully, resignation flooding through him.

"Yes! Alright, it's . . . it's _anti-freeze._ I just - I wanted - I wanted Harry to _depend_ on me again," he cried out, knocking aside Tom's arm, the chocolate box flying from his grasp. "W - when Severus died, _I_ was all he had. Severus had been such an ugly boy when I taught him, and he became an ugly man that _wasted_ Harry's affections. When he left the picture, I thought Harry would see how finally see how _beautiful_ he is," Albus' lips parted as he stared off into space. "B - but he's been naughty lately. He's acting like the my old students, impudent and _stupid,_ wasting their purity on those _unworthy_ to them." _H_ e crumpled to the floor. "Nothing like Ariana. No one's ever been like sweet, lovely Ari."

Tom stared at this man - a man Harry had trusted. He was _insane,_ Tom realized, and dangerously so.

"When I learned of Harry's unimaginable powers, I hoped she could communicate through him. Perhaps - if someone else closed to him died, he would _understand."_

"Someone like me?" Tom spat, dark eyes blazing. "What would've happened if I wasn't here? Which of your friends would you have sacrificed?"

Albus lowered his gaze. "Luna is always _touching_ him," He mumbled.

Tom was disgusted. "Do you know why Harry likely never spoke with Ariana?" Albus looked up, long hair framing his lank and tear-streaked face. "She _passed on,_ probably because she hated watching the man - the _monster -_ you have become."

The older man's gaze dropped once more, grief and regret tearing through him with a painful veracity. "I could easily turn you over to the police. Although you may have weaseled your way out of those sexual assault charges, attempted murder is something else entirely."

Albus spotted the box of chocolates on the ground and made a frantic jerk toward them. Tom's boot came down on his hand, the fragile bones snapping. His ring cracked down the middle, a jagged strike going through the _'A'._

"Not so fast, old man."

Albus cried out in pain. Tom crouched down. _"_ _B_ _ecause_ Harry still cares for you, god knows why, I'm going to let you flee like the coward you are _._ If you wish to live any longer, pack up your candy, sell your shop and move _far - far - away._ Preferably no-where near young children,"Tom told Albus, grabbing the chocolates. "I'm going to dispose of this _pitiful_ murder weapon, and tell Harry you had an urgent family emergency."

"He'll be worried!"

"I'm sure he will," Tom conceded. "But when we get home, I'm going to pleasure Harry so _well_ and so _thoroughly_ that all fleeting thoughts of you will be banished from his mind."

Albus winced.

Tom continued viciously. "And life will go on, ending with the 'happily ever after' that Harry deserves. Do you understand?"

The older man was quiet too long. Tom pressed his foot harder into the man's mangled fingers. "Yes!" he screeched. "I understand!"

Tom crushed the man's hand for a good few seconds longer before pulling away. Albus curled in on himself, pathetically cradling his hand to his heart. Head tilting, Tom eyed the broken ring. "Oh - and as a little _payment_ for your crimes - I would like that ring. I think I'll restore it, and give it to Harry as an engagement band." Albus' eyes bulged.

"Of course, I'll wait until things settle down before taking that next step." Tom shrugged an absent shoulder. "Whether it take a year or three, I actually care enough about Harry _not_ to exploit him while he's grieving or in pain. Hand it over," he held his hand out impatiently.

Trembling, Albus struggled to remove the ring, practically throwing it to Tom. "Thank you, for your business, Mister Dumbledore," the man bowed deeply. "Pleasant travels."

Without looking back, Tom re-entered _Pandora's_. His ocean blue eyes lit upon Harry, a small smile crossing his face. The smaller boy grabbed Tom's hand and sat him down.

"Where's Albus?" the boy asked, gnawing on his bottom lip. Overwhelmed with the urge to kiss him, Tom leaned over and did so. He swallowed Harry's pleased gasp, pressing close before pulling back with a smirk.

"Family emergency," was all he said. "Everything's fine."

"Oh." Harry returned his attention to one of the other grievers, idly laying his head against Tom's shoulder. Meanwhile, Tom slipped the ring into his pocket, staring down fondly at his boy.

It would make a perfect addition to his collection of precious treasures.

* * *

 **Harry hadn't always lived in the apartment above his shop.**

 _ **Read the prequel:** _**Lost Boy**

* * *

 _ **A/N: If you or someone you know is in the throes of grief or depression, know that there are many healthy ways of dealing with it that don't involve contacting the dead. Talk to a loved one, visit a local support group and, please, try to find happiness in this strange, sad, beautiful world.**_ _ **Best of luck to all of you, and thank you for your support. Please leave a favorite, comment or subscribe if you'd like to keep updated with future works.**_


End file.
